Apotheosis of the Dwemer
by Pollardinator
Summary: The ancient Dwemer of Tamriel have been lost for centuries, wiped from existence after a failed attempt to create a power to rival the gods themselves. And yet, thousands of years later, the Last Dragonborn finds himself fighting in an apocalyptic war to end all wars as the golden armies of the Dwemer march to war against all creation and the forces of Man, Mer and Daedra alike...
1. Chapter 1- The Battle of Red Mountain

Fire rained down from the heavens as the Chimer and Dwemer forces battled on the slopes of Red Mountain, lines of golden armoured Dwemer soldiers and whole legions of Centurion automatons fought against the massed ranks of Chimer warriors, spells and hails of arrows cutting though the red ash in the smoky air.

As the screams and clash of blades reached his ears from his lofty position on a rocky outcrop overlooking the battle, Nervevar, leader of the Chimer, narrowed his eyes, his proud face set in an expression of pure anger. The Dwemer, once thought to be their allies, sought to rival the powers of the gods themselves, and Nervevar had heard from the mouth of the goddess Azura herself of how the prideful Dwemer were attempting to achieve godhood for themselves. And now, as the slopes of Red Mountain were bathed in crimson and the corpses of countless slain warriors, he took a deep breath, looking around him where his advisors, Vivec, Sotha Sil and his wife, Almalexia, sat atop their mounts, and drew his sword.

"We are ready to storm the mountain." Said Dagoth, his right hand, his armoured form not concealing the slight smile crossing his youthful features.

Nervevar nodded as his sword, Trueflame, burst into a rippling red fire, and he turned to his advisors.

"Keep the Dwemer forces occupied as long as you can. This is between me and King Dumac."

And with that he clattered down the rocky hill, Dagoth and his ten strong bodyguard at his back, passing countless groups of Chimer warriors letting forth hails of arrows into the battle beyond, many of them shouting out oaths of fealty and encouragements as Nervevar passed and raised his sword to the sky as the golden forms of the main Dwemer battle line reared up ahead, the impassive forms of their formidable Centurions looming high above the shield wall. Glancing to his sides to see the might of the Chimer cavalry at his back, Nervevar raised Trueflame to the heavens.

"For Azura!" He roared, and the cry was taken up by every Chimer within earshot, and he galloped straight towards the Dwemer lines, deflecting arrows and spells with his shield as he and the cavalry slammed into the dwarven soldiers, cutting a bloody swathe through them, Trueflame melting their armour and splitting their skulls, whilst Nerevar's bodyguard, their longswords flashing in the sun, covered every side, taking down the elite dwarven legionaries with ease.

"Behold the power of the Dwemer!" Dagoth said with a sarcastic laugh as he galloped alongside Nerevar, firing his towering bow of ebony and horn, expertly putting the black fletched arrows through the eye slits and neck joints of the Dwemer armour.

"Keep your guard up!" Nerevar ordered as he dodged a thrown spear which instead impaled a nearby Chimer cavalryman, before trampling the spear thrower under his horses steel shod hooves.

As he said this the Dwemer line up ahead began to move back as a pall of steam issued out over their lines, and a distinctive clanking of metal echoed out and the ground shook as shadowy figures, ten foot tall, were just visible in the steam.

"Centurions!" bellowed a nearby soldier, seconds before a flight of Dwemer arrows took him in the chest and he fell screaming from his horse.

Nerevar powered onwards as the brass and gold forms of the Centurions appeared, their hammers and steam breath cutting through the Chimer lines.

And yet the Centurions were still advancing.

Flights of arrows broke off their armour, whilst the spells thrown at them by the cloaked Chimer battle mages were deflected off onto their own forces, Chimer foot soldiers dying in agony as flames and lightning crossed their bodies.

Nerevar brought his horse around the armoured sides of one of the lead Centurions as it was distracted by a horde of Chimer spearmen, their ebony spear tips snapping on the creature's thick armour. Again and again he struck it in the traditional weak spots, the neck, joints and under the arms, and yet the brass titan still cleaved through his forces, ignoring his puny attacks.

Until, with a whoosh of steam and a clank of gears, it turned to face him, its golden face impassive as it raised its tree trunk sized arms, sweeping aside two of his bodyguard, the two Chimer and their horses turned to splashes of blood and shreds of flesh with one stroke.

As it advanced Dagoth poured arrows into it, but the projectiles merely stuck into the golden armour or rebounded and clattered to the baked earth. Nerevar held his shield close to him, ready to try and deflect the scalding hot steam he knew the golden automatons were so deadly with.

Suddenly there was a crackle of lightning from the left which struck the Centurion full on, throwing it on to its side, its armoured form wreathed in blue sparks as Hamus, commander of Nerevar's bodyguard, appeared from over a mound of dead Chimer warriors, the lightning still crackling around his left hand, his right arm hanging useless at his side whilst his armour and cloak were caked in blood and dust.

"Keep going sir!" he said with a grim smile. "We'll hold them."

Then he was running, gathering more lightning in his palm as the Centurion he had struck down began to pick itself up, and behind it more of the golden automatons could be seen as the smoke began to clear, along with countless Dwemer soldiers all charging forward.

"We have to stop this!" Nerevar said simply as he and Dagoth clattered up the hill, Chimer and Dwemer warriors battling on all sides as a towering stone and gold archway loomed up ahead, cut in to the side of the mountain, its guardians battling with a host of Chimer battle mages.

Dagoth only nodded as he strung his bow once more, ready to face whatever lay within. Leaping from their horses as they came to the entrance, they easily cut through the embattled Dwemer soldiers desperately trying to protect the gates, the mages forming a defensive ring around the gateway as the two Chimer ran alone into the Dwemer stronghold.

The tunnel that stretched before them was quiet except for the constant clatter of machinery that all Dwemer structures echoed with, and Nerevar felt a slight prickle of fear across every part of him as he and Dagoth plunged further in, past the scuttling forms of mechanical spiders that clicked and whirred in the shadows, unwilling or unable to do anything to stop the two intruders.

"Where are the guards?" Dagoth whispered, having shouldered his bow and drawn his sword, the long ebony blade catching the unearthly light issuing from the strange mechanical lanterns in the carved stone around them.

"There must be further in." Nerevar said calmly, not wanting to let the rising sense of unease that he felt in this place unnerve his companion. "And Dumac of course." Even though he had once considered the dwarven king his friend and ally, Nerevar was ready to plunge his sword into the fool's chest for this affront to the gods. He had always thought the Demur's dismissal of the obvious power of the Daedra rash and stupid, but only now, as the tunnel around him echoed with the whines and hisses of their race's bizarre machinery, did he realise how mad and evil they truly were.

Suddenly, as they were about to turn a corner, he heard a slight clatter of loose stone up ahead, and the heavy crunch of armoured feet.

Putting out a hand to stop Dagoth, Nerevar drew his dagger, a Dwemer blade ironically gifted to him by Dumac after the alliance against the Nords had been formed, and slowly edged forwards, his feet making no sound as he moved to the corner and, in one decisive movement leapt out and slashed at the assailant, intending to cut their throat, but a blast of steam blinded him momentarily and he couldn't see, but still felt the dagger cutting in to flesh, and then fell upon the attacker, pushing them roughly to the ground and, as the steam cleared, raised his blade to strike.

But as the steam cleared he withdrew his blade, as he saw the figure before him was no threat, unarmed and clearly not a warrior. The Dwemer woman's armour was ill fitting and obviously not her own, lacking the slightly more shapely curves of female Dwemer armour, whilst the weapon in her hand, a small knife, clattered to the stone floor as she put a hand to the jagged scar across her left cheek, blood pumping freely out across her pale hands and in to the long curled black locks of her hair.

"You won't stop our ascension!" she spat, but Nerevar simply stood up and walked away, her insults and jeers ringing in his ears as he waved Dagoth away and the two men ran on down the corridor.

"You cannot stop the apotheosis of the Dwemer!" she screeched as they turned the corner and disappeared from her view in to the steam.

They passed under an ornate gold plated stone archway, through a pall of steam and smoke, and, for a second, Nerevar felt a sense of equal parts fear and awe as he saw what lay ahead.

The room was huge, carved out of the side of the volcano itself, as the bubbling of lava far below attested to, huge golden piping stretching across the chiselled stone, whilst the thin stone walkway they stood on stretched far out over a shadowy abyss falling away on all sides. But it was the monstrous figure which stood in the centre of the vast chamber which caused him the most shock.

"The Numidium…" Dagoth said with an obvious sense of reverence as they stepped closer, marvelling at the huge golden being, armoured in a similar fashion to the Dwemer themselves, but hundreds of metres tall, its head almost lost in the shadows above as hot ash and steam burst up from all sides.

Then Nerevar heard a clattering of armour and weapons being drawn, and turned to see a group of Dwemer warriors advancing upon them, armed with heavy battle-axes and maces. And at the centre of them, his helmet off to reveal his flowing black hair and impressive beard filled with golden rings and medallions, stood Dumac, King of the Dwemer, and behind him the robed form of Kagrenac, the Dwemer High Priest.

"Stop this madness Dumac!" Nerevar pleaded, but, although he saw sorrow and regret in the old king's eyes, the Dwemer drew his shimmering great sword from his back and stepped forward.

"We can't stop now, even if we wanted to…" he said simply. "The Heart of Lorkhan, the scorned god, was thrown to the mortal realm millennia ago for this exact purpose, to turn our race from mere mortal creatures into gods! I cannot let you stop my race's apotheosis."

Nerevar sighed deeply, looking the king in the eyes one last time before, with a savage warcry,he leapt forward, swinging his sword around, the king only just leaping back as the Chimer cut through the bodyguard, knocking aside their axes and maces as he drove his blade through each one on turn. He barely felt anything anymore except anger. Anger at the Dwemer for their arrogance. Anger at Dumac for his betrayal of their friendship. And most of all, anger at himself for not stopping this mad scheme before it got too far gone for them to walk away from alive.

He barely noticed his blade as it cleaved through the Dwemer warriors, didn't see the fear through their eye slits as he and Dagoth laid waste to them. He only allowed his vision to clear of the red haze of rage that had settled over it when it was only him and Dumac, standing across from each other, Dagoth standing to one side, knowing this fight Nerevar had to fight alone.

"For the Dwemer!" Dumac roared as he swung his blade, Nerevar only just leaping to one side to dodge the weapons broad swing, before bringing his shield up, knocking the Dwemer back whilst slashing for his sides. Only the king's thick armour stopped him from being cut in two, but he was quick to counter, swinging the greatsword above his head and down in an attempt to slash down the Chimer from his neck to his legs.

"The power of the gods is within our grasp." Dumac shouted, and, even as he rolled to one side to dodge the swing of the king's greatsword, he could sense the regret behind the Dwemer's words, the feeling that the king did not truly believe in what he was fighting for.

But then the king ran at him and, with a clash of metal, their swords slammed against one another, so close they could read the runes carved into each other's blades. With a shout Nerevar brought his shield around, slamming it in to the Dwemer's side and knocking him back. For a second the king stumbled back, then collapsed over the bloody corpse of one of his bodyguard's and fell into a heap on the cold stone, his greatsword clattering away and over the edge.

He reached for the shortsword at his waist, but already Trueflame was pressed up against his neck, the heat burning the skin around his throat.

Nerevar looked down at his defeated enemy, not with rage, but with pity. This man was not fighting for his race's chance to become gods. He was only fighting for his duty.

"The Heart is ready" he heard Kagrenac screech with unbridled glee.

As Kagrenac laughed from nearby, Nerevar looked at Dumac once more and saw the king close his eyes, a single tear tracing down his cheek.

"I…am sorry." He said softly, then there was a blinding flash of blue light and the king was gone. But not just him, Nerevar noticed. The bodies of the slain bodyguard were gone, leaving nothing behind but a few scraps of armour and scattered weapons, as was Kagrenac, the only items to mark the High Priest's disappearance being a small dagger, hammer and an ornate golden gauntlet.

He saw Dagoth nearby looking on wide eyed, then he turned to see Vivec, Sotha Sil and Almalexia, at their back a score of Chimer warriors, all wounded.

"They've gone!" Almalexia cried, and, as Nerevar and Dagoth looked on in confusion, she continued. "The Dwemer are all gone. Nothing but swords and armour left. The Centurions, Spheres, all their abomination machines, they've all collapsed or fallen apart!"

As the others cheered and celebrated Nerevar looked down at the floor where Dumac had been lying, nothing but a few of his rings that had been knocked off in the fight remaining to show the king had ever existed before saying simply.

"What have you fools done."


	2. Chapter 2- War Never Changes

Thousands of years later and, although the Dwemer and Chimer were long gone, one disappeared from existence, the other cursed by Azura for their leader's attempts to become gods themselves and transformed into the Dunmer, or Dark Elves, battle had once again come to Red Mountain.

But now it was a very different war, between the Empire of Men and the High Elf Aldmeri Dominion. After the First War between the two races, there had been a period of uneasy peace, until the crushing of the Nordic Stormcloak rebellion by the Imperial Legions, aided by the mysterious figure known as the Dragonborn, and the unexpected assault upon the Empire by the Thalmor rulers of the Dominion, upon learning of the power their new ally possessed.

Now, deep within a luxurious tent within the 8th Imperial Legion's main camp high up on the slopes of the volcano, the Dragonborn was casually catching a nap, seeming to care little that a High Elf army was even now marching upon the Imperial position.

That is until a gauntleted hand slapped him across his thin face. His handsome features and deep brown hair, a look common to natives of the Imperial province of Cyroddil, marked by a slight reddening as he awoke, finding himself staring into the pale face of Serana, former vampire, long-time companion and ,after almost a year of rejected proposals, ending with a successful one after a particularly hard fight against a pack of Frost Trolls led them to finding more than just warmth with one another in a small cave and a packed ceremony the week after in Riften- very much put-upon wife. However at the moment her long brown hair, elegantly styled, as always, framed a face set in a frown, her eyes almost glowing with frustration despite the fact she had been cured of her vampirism for months now.

"How can you sleep at a time like this Lucius?!" she demanded, manhandling him from beneath the collection of bear pelts and troll furs that formed their bed, to find him already fully dressed in his distinctive Dragon bone armour, an exact copy of the set she wore. Although, as he constantly reminded her, his armour was made from the bones of the mortal form of Alduin the World Eater, brought back from the heavenly Sovngarde,whilist her armour had been made from the bones of a dragon he had 'just happened to come across' whilst travelling to Markarth at night.

"Do you ever take that armour off?" she said with a raised eyebrow, her anger now changed to a slight sense of annoyance as he casually went over to the weapons rack on the wall, filled with all manner of weapons, from the first iron dagger he had forged in Riverwood after the destruction of Helgen, all the way to the Daedric artefacts and Skyforge steel blades that Lucius had acquired during his travels and his journey to becoming the Dragonborn.

"Only when you ask me nicely…" he replied with a flirtatious grin as he selected the Dawnbreaker, the glowing golden sword of the champion of Meridia, and the Spellbreaker, the strange Dwemer shield he and his housecarl Lydia had spent the best part of a month in a dwarven ruin trying to find, and tossed them across to his wife, who was trying not to grin at his almost ridiculously upbeat attitude to everything as he selected the glittering black curved forms of the Dragonbane and Bolor's Oathblade swords, both priceless relics of the military order of the Blades, Lucius personal bodyguard, as befitted the Dragonborn. Added to that he belted the ominous form of the Ebony Blade, a Daedric weapon he still bore, despite its evil origins, onto his back, red lettering flashing briefly on its black sheath.

Sliding the two dragon scale scabbards of the swords into his belt, Lucius then selected his favourite helmet, a formidable construction of ebony and dragon bone, from the armour rack to his left, grinning innocently at Serana as he slipped the heavy helmet over his head.

"If the Thalmor could only wait another hour or so before they start the battle I would be a lot happier…" he said with mock annoyance. "I was having the most wonderful dream."

"I don't want to know." Serena said with a laugh as she put on her own helmet. "I found the copies of the Lusty Argonian Maid underneath your bed yesterday whilst you were training with Legate Rikke outside."

Lucius's eyes widened.

"As if! Lydia and Hadvar must have…I don't know, sneaked in while we were out and left it here…."

And yet there was no more time for idle banter as they stepped out into the main area of the tent where the large map table was surrounded by a host of Imperial officers, at the opposite end General Tullius standing flanked by Legate Rikke and Delphine, Grandmaster of the Blades, all fully armoured and ready for battle.

"Ah Dragonborn. Took your time? "Tullius said with a slightly raised eyebrow, but Lucius knew the old soldier meant no offence. The two had a great respect for each other, if it seemed they hated each other at times.

"What's the situation out there?" Serena asked quickly, obviously trying to spare Lucius any embarrassment.

"The Dominion forces are still far enough away that we won't have to worry about them for at least a while…" Legate Rikke said simply, pointing at a collection of green flags on the map table, still some distant from the red flags of the Imperial lines. "However their scouting forces and some five hundred skirmishers, mostly Bosmer conscripts and Khajiit mercenaries, have advanced through our outer defence lines and are currently engaged with Legate Orsius' battalion of Orcish heavy infantry. Captain Hadvar stands ready to bring his own force around by this ridge here to flank the enemy units, but he doesn't know if he has the manpower to force them to retreat. We need them driven away before they can threaten our flanks"

"So you want me to lead an attack alongside Hadvar's men?" Lucius asked, his expression and voice deadly serious now that his comrades, and his old friend Hadvar, were about to perform such a risky manoeuvre.

"Only as far as this forest here, the Green Oasis, as the local Dunmer call it." Rikke replied, pointing at a crudely drawn collection of trees on the map. "These enemy soldiers are Khajiit and Bosmer. I trust you know of their…volatile, history. If you were to lead a group of fighters straight in to the heart of them, we may be able to break their morale enough that they either turn upon each other or the whole unit splits into two, one Khajiit and one of Wood Elves, which will be much easier to deal with before the main Thalmor force arrives."

Lucius nodded and, seeing a few encouraging nods from the assembled officers, turned to General Tullius before he said in a firm tone.

"Let's do this."

000000

As Lucius and his bodyguard of twenty Blades, amongst their number many of his former companions and long-time friends, including the burly form of Mjoll the Lioness and the young Nord Agmaer, on loan from the Dawnguard vampire hunters, currently checking over his crossbow as the small company of warriors dismounted their horses and looked out over the plain beyond.

A vast column of dust beyond the fast flowing River Ur was the only sign of the main Thalmor force, whilst the ridge they stood on stretched down to the baked earth beyond, where Hadvar's small unit of fifty Imperial soldiers formed a shieldwall, ready for whatever came at them, the forest around a mile away from them, leaving a large plain of dark earth. Behind Lucius and the others the ridge clambered up further, groups of Imperial archers with longbows and crossbows standing ready to pour fire upon the enemy.

For a second Lucius paused, looking around at the Blades around him, all standing in their elaborate heavy armour, acknowledging his warm smile with slight bows or nods.

Then he heard Agmaer shouting from where he sat crouched at the edge of the ridge, crossbow in hand.

"Sir, there's figures running towards Captain Hadvar's men!"

Instantly Lucius ran to the edge of the ridge and stared down.

As he watched in horror, a host of dark shapes ran out from the thick undergrowth of the Green Oasis forest, straight towards the Imperial soldiers.

In a flash Agmaer and five other Blades had drawn their crossbows and were ready to fire. When they came in range.

"No." Lucius ordered simply as he looked closer, his eyesight much better than the others due to his dragon blood, and the soldiers lowered their weapons. "Those are our boys."

But, as he watched the ragged remnants of Legate Orsius' troops rush across the hard ground towards Hadvar's men, he noticed how few there were of the hundred strong regiment he had seen only the day before leaving camp. The Legate and his men were the toughest Orcs he had ever fought alongside, and yet here they were running as if Alduin himself were chasing them. Something wasn't right.

Then the dozen strong remains of Orsius' men all collapsed simultaneously, glittering glass arrows in their backs.

"Take aim!" Lucius roared at his men, but already it was too late, as a group of black cloaked Thalmor on horseback burst out of the forest line, already stringing new arrows to their deadly bows of glass and moonstone.

"Shit… Those aren't skirmishers" he cursed and drew his swords.

"Blades! With me!" he roared, and no sooner had the words left his lips than he heard the clatter of twenty swords leaving their sheaths, and then, allowing himself a second to smile with satisfaction at his men, he ran down the hill.

"For the Emperor! For the Dovhakin!" came the shouts from both sides as Lucius ran down the ridge, dislodging loose stones and pebbles under his armoured feet, watching the Thalmor soldiers break on Hadvar's shield wall. But the cavalry were quick to retreat, as lines of Thalmor soldiers in black cloaks and hard glass armour, bearing the distinctive red eye emblem of Justicar Ondolemar, elite soldiers of the Dominion carrying lethal looking swords and axes, in amongst their numbers a few battered looking Bosmer and Khajiit.

But Lucius and his troops didn't so much as flinch as more Thalmor began rushing across the dusty plain towards them, flights of arrows flying overhead from the Imperial lines, and the resounding roar of countless Imperial troops echoed across the slopes of Red Mountain as the Legion lumbered in to battle.

The Blades slammed in to the front ranks of the Thalmor, cutting down the elite Mer as if they were undisciplined bandits not trained soldiers. Their ebony blades rose and fell as one, slashing through their fragile glass armours and painting the baked earth with elven blood.

But it was Lucius that cut the greatest swathe, as he brought the full power of the Dragonborn to bear upon the elves, his twin blades hacking and slashing their way through all challengers, splintering whole groups of the Thalmor with devastating shouts of power and his deadly swordsmanship.

Hacking through three screaming Thalmor, knocking aside their greatswords before slashing them across the chest with a lethal double bladed strike, he ran on, whirling his blades around himself, any that stood against him cut down or turned to ash by his Fire Breath.

"Dovhakin! Dovhakin!" came the resounding roar as, on both sides, lines of red armoured shapes and proud banners announced the arrival of the Imperial reinforcements, their tight shield formations and disciplined ranks clashing with the High Elves now pouring out in waves from the forest and the clouds of dust that had obviously been magically conjured to the east to hide their army's rapid movements.

But, as Lucius cut down a proud looking Thalmor officer bearing an ornate glass battle-axe, he saw that the High Elf lines were breaking, rushing back towards the dust cloud to the left of the forest.

"Take it to them!" He roared, sheathing his twin blades as he slowly brought the Ebony Blade from his back, balancing it in both hands as he looked left and right at the formidable steel shields and grim faces of the Imperial Legion, then, the shouts of the army behind spurring him on, rushing forward, the clatter of weapons the only sound he needed to hear to know he did not run alone.

Out of the dust clouds stepped another rank of Thalmor troops, hastily setting up their own wall of shields and wicked spears and, for a second, Lucius felt a slight sense of pleasure at seeing their terrified expressions as he pounded forward.

But then he noticed one of the officers, atop a horse armoured in glittering glass and moonstone, suddenly tumble from the saddle, his eyes rolling up in to the back of his head. He kept running, but already he could see a few others drop, their weapons clattering to the floor.

"Cowardly bastards!" he heard one of his Blades laugh, but then, he watched with a sense of horror as the entire Thalmor battle line suddenly collapsed silently, except for the slam of their armoured forms hitting the baked earth.

There were mere seconds left until the first of the Imperial troops hit the eerily empty Thalmor battle line, and Lucius gripped his blade tighter, ready to discover whatever foul sorcery had bewitched the Thalmor. If it could wipe out a whole army that quick, what would happen when the Imperials reached that dust cloud?

He leapt over the first of the Thalmor bodies, the high Elf motionless, his face set in an expression of pure pain and agony and leapt in to the dust cloud, just as the swirling particles of ash and dirt began to clear, the Thalmor mages evidently dead themselves for the enchantment to end so quickly. And, as Lucius looked out over the open plain that was revealed, he felt a sense of horror.

Beyond was literally a carpet of Thalmor corpses, all laid out in neat rows stretching of into the distance, dead where they had stood, countless scattered weapons and shields catching the blazing sunlight streaming down overhead.

Then there was a shimmering in the air only a hundred metres from the stalled Imperial line, as the soldiers had found the grisly discovery and had stalled, and Lucius peered closer.

"What foul sorcery is this?" Mjoll said, her voice choked up with fear, keeping her sword in an iron hard grip.

Then there was a flash of blinding blue light, sending many of the soldiers around them to their knees, and Lucius watched with a sense of equal parts awe and terror as a host of golden shapes began to appear out of the shimmering blue light and swirling dust, their armoured forms seeming to slowly meld in to reality from formless blobs of gold.

"Stand fast!" he heard Captain Hadvar holler, but he could sense the Imperial soldiers on all sides wavering as the golden figures began to advance, and he finally recognised them, feeling a chill go down his spine as he whispered to himself.

"Dwemer…"

Then there was no time to speak, as the sky was suddenly filled with golden arrows falling into the Imperial lines, and the thunk of metal on wood was drowned out by the screams of dying soldiers.

"Dovhakin!" came a voice from nearby, and then Hadvar was at Lucius' side, a sturdy wood and steel shield held above both of them as the whistling of arrows and shouts of men echoed from all around.

"What are these things?" the captain demanded, wincing as his shield arm began to waver from the weight of the strange arrows slamming into it.

"Bad news…" Lucius replied simply, trying not to watch as soldiers were scythed down on all sides.

"What do we do?!"

Lucius stepped out from under the cover of the shield, feeling the arrows slice down dangerously close to him, and shouted out.

"Lok vah koor!" he roared, the ancient words of the Thu'um, intended to clear the skies of weather effects, having a similar effect upon the Dwemer's attack ,the arrows sailing towards the Imperial lines clattering harmlessly to the ground.

"Surprised that worked.." he mused, but was snapped out of it when he saw the Dwemer forces advancing, their shields reflecting the sun as the light danced across their bronze and gold armour, an unbroken line of impassive faces holding their blades high.

"Men of the Empire!" he heard someone shouting and, turning to his right, saw General Tullius standing proud alongside his elite 'Firstborn' heavy cavalry further down the line, atop an armoured stallion, rallying the soldiers already turning to run. "Whoever these beings are, they will not stop unless we meet them with pure Imperial steel. Take it to them!"

And with that the Imperial army, with one deafening battle cry, rushed towards the Dwemer lines, Lucius running to stay at the front, determined to sweep aside these new enemies with the power of the Thu'um.

The Imperial army broke upon the Dwemer lines like water on rock, slamming into the golden shields and being pushed back under a wall of unnaturally sharp blades and superior discipline. The strong formations collapsed into a rabble as the dwarves drove forwards, fast spider-like automatons leaping over the Dwemer warriors and cutting through the Imperials with bladed legs and blast of bizarre blue lightning.

Lucius and the remnants of his bodyguard managed to hold fast in the face of the Dwemer advance, but, as he raked the Ebony Blade uselessly across the thick Dwemer shields, Lucius found their weapons and tactics, suited to fighting lightly armoured Thalmor, hopeless against the heavily armoured dwarves.

"Fus Roh Dah!" he bellowed, blasting a gap in the shield wall and sending Dwemer warriors slamming into the baked earth, but, as he and a host of Imperial foot soldiers attempted to rush forward, he heard a distinctive mechanical clanking fill the air, and felt his hope die.

The Dwemer Centurion emerged from a cloud of steam and dust ahead of them, its armoured form marching unstoppably forwards as the Dwemer warriors parted to let it and five identical automatons trudge past, red fletched Imperial arrows slamming weakly into it and bouncing off or sticking into its golden form.

"Form up! Form up!" Lucius shouted, but his orders were lost in the screams of dying men as the Centurions ploughed into the Imperials, sending dozens of men flying with sweeps of their huge axes and hammers.

"Sir, we need to fall back!" Mjoll screeched at him, her face splashed with her comrade's blood, her distinctive blue war paint lost in the crimson.

Lucius ran towards her, watching with horror as the Dwemer warriors cut through any opposition, but was too late as a blood stained brass axe came swinging down, cleaving the brave warrior woman in half and throwing her remains out over the melee of red and gold figures.

In desperation he looked in all directions, but all he saw was death and destruction. To his right General Tullius and a few battered Firstborn heavy cavalry duelled with elegant Dwemer warriors riding giant golden spiders, whilst a group of Orc and Nord soldiers ran screaming from a pack of Dwarven Spheres, many cut down by crossbow bolts as they fled. To his left a formidable looking unit of Dwemer warriors clad in deep blue cloaks and golden female masks charged through a hastily erected shield wall with evil looking brass spears, easily impaling any who dared stand and fight as the men's blood splashed across their golden armour.

Breathing heavily Lucius only just managed to block a strike from a Dwemer wielding a huge greatsword, ramming the tip of the Ebony Blade through the joint between the warriors helmet and neck armour, then staggering briefly the advancing Centurions rushing at them with a well-placed Unrelenting Force shout.

Realising the situation was hopeless, he looked up at the skies, now filled with Dwemer arrows and a few Imperial arrows being fired in retaliation, and, taking a deep breath, screamed to the skies.

"Od Ah Ving!"

For a second there was nothing except the clash of steel on all sides and screams of dying Imperials, but then he saw a dark shape appearing in the skies near the impassive form of Red Mountain, getting closer.

He sensed more Dwemer warriors approaching and turned to face them, finding himself up against at least a dozen heavily armoured soldiers, all armed with shields and swords or axes.

One of them shouted something incomprehensible in his own tongue, seconds before a deafening bestial roar filled the air and a gout of flame blasted down from above, melting the warrior's armour and causing every warrior, Imperial and Dwemer, on the battlefield, to look up with fear as a dark shape hovered above the blood soaked earth.

"Dovhakin!" The towering dragon boomed. "I am here!"

Letting off another blast of fire Odahviing, former right hand of Alduin, now ally of his former greatest foe, flew low overhead, tearing through a rampaging Centurion before landing in front of the Dragonborn, scattering Dwemer warriors with a single movement of his mighty wings.

"You must flee Dovhakin." The dragon said simply, pausing to send another jet of fire towards a brave but foolish group of Dwemer soldiers advancing upon them. "These Dwemer are an ancient and powerful race. Even you cannot stand against their full might. The Dragonborn is too important to the world to let yourself be cut down here!"

Lucius bowed his head, the sounds of battle still sounding out on all sides. He couldn't leave the Legion and his friends to die like this. Especially not Serana. But the dragon before him was insistent, and he knew that the Empire couldn't possibly win this battle.

"Don't worry sir. We'll hold them off!" Agmaer shouted to his left, as he battled against two battered looking Dwarven Spheres.

With a sigh Lucius quickly turned back to Odahviing, knowing there was no time to argue. He shouted over to Hadvar, who was just finishing off a spider automaton with a sword thrust to the body, and the brave captain ran over.

"Hadvar! We need to go!"

He knew he had not time left, but Lucius didn't care. He would at least save one of his friends.

The two men clambered up the armoured sides of Odahviing, gripping to his scaled back as Dwemer arrows sailed towards them, most clattering off the dragon's scaled hide, but a few burying themselves deep in him.

With one last roar of defiance and jet of flame directed at the Dwemer, Odahviing soared high up into the sky and away, until the battle below was little more than a jumble of red and gold shapes, and off into the clear skies beyond.


	3. Chapter 3- Amongst the Clouds

It seemed like Lucius and Hadvar, atop their monstrous mount, had been flying forever, the endless carpet of white and grey clouds below giving no clues as to where they were going. Odahviing had remained silent throughout most of the journey, only snapping off a few hurried questions about the Dwemer, and how they could have appeared so suddenly. And yet Lucius had no idea. He had only recognised the golden warriors because of the many times he had explored their ancient ruins and scavenged their armour and machinery for the High Elf historian Calcelmo in Markarth.

"How did…?" Hadvar began from behind, his voice seeming to just peter out into silence as he attempted to try and put into words the countless questions buzzing around in his head. Lucius couldn't blame him. Hadvar was a good soldier and a loyal friend, but he was still in many ways naïve about some of the darker secrets of the world, mainly due to his deep set claustrophobia and fear of the unknown. At the same time, both of them were clueless about what had happened to their friends and loved ones, and had not yet discussed the possibility of them being lost forever. The pain must have been worse for Hadvar, who had only recently began a relationship with Lucius' sarcastic but loyal housecarl Lydia, when it had seemed like the war against the Thalmor was going well. Lucius knew in his heart that Serana was alive, but even though he had witnessed first-hand how well trained and courageous Lydia was, he still feared for the life of one of his best friends.

"Do you think we're the only ones who got away?" Hadvar said finally, the breeze, surprisingly warm considering how high up they were, blowing straight past, reshuffling the clouds around them like a cosmic shepherd.

Lucius shook his head, a confident smile on his face.

"Not a chance. Tullius is one of the best commanders I know. They've probably started another counterattack and pushed those Dwemer bastards back by now. Trust me, everyone back there will be fine."

Even though Lucius was trying to put a brave face on, when he saw Hadvar frown and shake his head, he knew that his words had failed to have the desired effect.

"Those…Dwemer, they're thousands of years old, Lucius! They were nothing but characters in campfire tales until a few hours ago. Even you couldn't survive against them for long! How can our armies possibly fight something we know so little about? And did you see those machines of theirs? I thought those were all left behind when they disappeared to wherever they've been stuck the past few centuries. How can they just march into existence in front of us?"

For once Lucius was silent, breathing deeply as he listened to the rhythmic movements of Odavhiing's wings around them, felt the deep thump of the dragon's heart underneath where he sat.

They sat like that, the two men, deep in thought, until, with a slight lurch, they felt the dragon beneath them begin to descend.

"What are you doing?" Lucius asked firmly. He didn't begrudge the dragon resting, but he needed to know where they were before he let them just drop from the sky so suddenly.

"I can go…no further." The ancient beast replied simply. My wounds were greater than I first thought."

Lucius' eyes widened as he realised that the arrow wounds, which he and Hadvar had quickly tended to once they were safely away from Red Mountain, were actually still causing the dragon pain. This had never happened before. Even when he had ridden Odahviing into battle against the Thalmor, whose lethal glass arrows were some of the deadliest in existence, he had never known the dragon to admit to being in so much pain.

"Set us down then friend." He said. "We can walk from here."

The dragon dipped his head in thanks before soaring down through the cloud layer and, for a second, Lucius felt the same sense of awe he had on his first flight on dragon back. Below them the harsh grey forms of ancient mountains rose up, verdant green forests and fast flowing rivers of clearest blue jostling for space in a rich natural tapestry of vibrant colour. The two men could just see the grey and brown form of a small town, set in a valley by a clear blue river, ringed by a stout wall, before it was lost from view behind a bank of clouds.

"Skyrim." Hadvar said softly, relief and wonder obvious in his voice.

By now they were close to the ground, and Lucius pointed out a small clearing amidst a carpet of slender pine trees, a herd of deer scattering into the treeline as the mighty dragon landed softly upon the soft grass, dipping his head to allow Hadvar and Lucius to clamber off before looking up into the skies again.

"We must part ways for now, Dovhakin." Odahviing admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "I wish I could aid you more but I doubt I can stand against those ancient warriors once more in this state. I wish you well in your quest and will find you again when I am recovered. Farwell!"

And with that the dragon was gone, soaring up once more into the skies with a roar, leaving the two soldiers alone in the clearing with nothing but the armour on their backs and the weapons at their sides.

Glancing up at the slightly overcast afternoon skies, marked by the gently drifting forms of white clouds, Hadvar turned to Lucius.

"We need to find some kind of settlement soon. We must send a message to the Legion somehow. That, and I doubt we'll get very far with no supplies."

Lucius nodded.

"I believe that town we saw on the way here was Riverwood?"

Hadvar grinned.

"These are the same forests me and my brothers used to play in years ago… I remember my first pet as a boy was a young deer we found up in the hills around here. I miss that old doe…" he added with a nostalgic smile as they set off, the smell of a distant campfire hanging around the trees as the two men walked the rough woodland path, Hadvar leading the way with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"What are we going to do when we've got our supplies?" he asked after a few minutes of silence except for the sounds of the forest, both of them eager to just have a quiet time to reflect.

"I'm heading to Markarth." Lucius replied. "You can come with me, but it'll be a hard journey. The Forsworn have been getting bolder in the Reach now that the civil wars over."

Hadvar shook his head, his feet crunching on loose stone as they emerged out of the forest and onto the road, the banks of the river to their left alive with small groups of fishermen and hunters with yew longbows. Since the end of the civil war more people now flocked the once empty roads, especially groups of enterprising Dunmer and Imperial huntsmen, eager to make some gold now that the threat of the Stormcloaks was gone.

"I would come with you friend, you know I would, but I have to head to headquarters in Solitude. Legate Adventus will need to know what happened, and he'll need every strong sword arm he can get if these Dwemer are not defeated soon. I need to speak with High King Balgruuf as well on the way. His warriors will be needed soon enough I fear. Why are you headed to Markarth? Surely you need to get back to the Legion as well? We need the Dragonborn alongside us for this battle…

Lucius smiled sadly, his gaze looking up into the skies above for a second, almost expecting Odahviing to come flying back at any minute.

"I can't yet Hadvar. We almost died back there! All our tactics and strategies are useless against an emeny like that." He added bluntly. "I must speak with Calcelmo, you remember him, the Dwemer expert? We need his knowledge and help if we are to fight them on equal terms."

His companion nodded in agreement, but his face was set in a grim frown as the wood and stone gate and walls of the small town of Riverwood loomed up ahead, the yellow banner of Whiterun Hold flying proudly from atop the new watchtower by the riverbank. As they came near, the small group of town guards by the gate, dressed proudly in yellow tunics and polished scaled armour, leapt to attention, quickly putting on their helmets and checking the steel swords at their waists as Lucius and Hadvar approached.

"Dragonborn!" called out the leader, his helmet off to reveal a dark grey beard and a wide smile, bowing slightly as Lucius approached, removing his own helmet and attaching it to his belt.

"What brings you to Riverwood?" asked one of the soldiers. "Not more dragons I hope?" he said with a nervous laugh.

But Lucius' expression was grim and he noticed the soldiers stiffening as they saw the blood patches and scratches across the two men's armour.

"Thalmor?" the leader hissed, his eyes wary.

"Worse." Hadvar said simply. "The Dwemer have returned."

"Dwemer?" the guards all said at the same time, their voices all filled with a slight sense of confusion and apprehension before the leader stepped forward again.

"With respect Dragonborn, the Dwemer are…fairy tales. The only thing we have to fear from them now is one of their mad creations."

"Didn't we all think the dragons a legend until a year ago?" one of the other guards said thoughtfully, and then the leader bowed quickly to Lucius, his previous arrogance replaced by steely determination and loyalty as he realised the truth of their words.

"I am sorry Dragonborn. I meant no disrespect. If the Dwemer have returned… We must be ready!"

"They are still many leagues from Skyrim." Hadvar replied evenly. "But we need to prepare. Remain at your posts for now. Send word to Whiterun immediately of the threat. I will personally speak with the High King and make sure our armies are ready. We need two horses saddled and ready to ride" he ordered.

The guards all nodded and moved aside, all noticeably making sure their weapons were ready as Hadvar led the way into the town. As they walked down the main street, being acknowledged by the villagers as they went, Lucius turned to his companion.

"We need to leave as soon as possible. I will get supplies for myself from Rorikstead. I cannot delay any longer."

Hadvar nodded.

"I need to make sure the town is sufficiently warned. I would walk the road with you myself but there's no time. When you're ready meet me in Solitude."

The two friends embraced quickly before Lucius, checking the two blades at his hip and the Ebony Blade on his back were secure, ran back the way they had come, through the town gate and onto the back of the chestnut horse held by one the guards. Thanking the guard, and with one last glance back into the town, where Hadvar was just going into his uncle's blacksmiths, Lucius spurred the horse down the road, scattering a group of hunters carrying slain deer upon their backs, and onwards to Markarth.

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Hundreds of miles away, upon the dusty and blood soaked foothills of Red Mountain, the Dwemer army advanced.

Countless dead Legion soldiers and Thalmor warriors crunched underneath their armoured boots as the golden soldiers went amongst the dead, looking over their primitive weapons and armour with some amusement, whilst searching for clues as to who these new enemies were. Around the battlefield echoed the brief screams of the few surviving Imperial soldiers, their lives coming to a quick end as glittering Dwemer swords were thrust into their hearts. A few unlucky Imperials were left alive, however briefly, to give vital information about the state of the world and local area, before their inevitable execution. The whole battlefield stank of burning flesh from the dozens of crude funeral pyres and the smell of oil and steam from the shimmering automatons of the Dwemer mixed with the sharp stench of blood and death.

But one figure walked with more purposes than the soldiers and automatons picking their way through the dead. A Dwemer woman, clad in an elegant suit of gold armour made up of interlocking bands of metal and chainmail, her long black hair that cascaded down her back to her waist adorned with ornate rings and medallions whilst a shimmering diamond circlet sat atop her forehead. Her face, pale and beautiful, was marked by a single ugly scar across her left cheek, as jagged and red as if it had only just been inflicted. With a host of bodyguards in armour trimmed with purple and red at her back, along with two standard bearers carrying aloft the Dwemer banner, a shining symbol made up of various thin lines of gold around a red sphere on a field of deep blue, she cut an imposing and lethal looking figure.

"My queen!" called out one of her captains, bowing low as she looked over, his fist upon his heart in the traditional Dwemer salute, and she turned slowly, her face set in a frown. "We have found the human leader."

The figure nodded and set off at a brisk walk, keeping a hand upon the slender dagger at her hip, the loose skirt of blue silk and chainmail at her hips moving softly in the breeze. Her entourage at her back, she picked her way through the dead, past the pile of corpses that marked the last stand of the Imperial Firstborn cavalry, to where a group of her warriors clustered around something. As she approached the warriors stepped aside, and she saw a single woman still alive, despite her legs being shattered and broken, most likely by the warriors standing over her with blood soaked maces, her armour more ornate than that of her slain comrades, her brown hair framing her defiant blue eyes as the figure stood over the dying Nord.

"Long live the Empire!" she spat defiantly, and the Dwemer rolled her eyes in disgust, her eyes settling on the golden sword lying by the Nord soldier's bloody right arm, a gem in the handle glowing with the power of countless suns.

"The sword of Meridia." She said in a voice, soft and gentle, as she, with a slight trembling in her hands, clad in long midnight blue gloves, took hold of the blade.

"You do not belong on this earth!" the human commander shouted, but the woman ignored the insult, turning to him with the sword drawn, the blade shimmering with unnatural power.

"What is your name, human?" she asked in a detached tone, in much the same way as a man might speak to an ant crawling over his foot.

"Legate Rikke, second in command to General Augustus Tullius." She said simply, her voice filled with a quiet sense of authority, despite her battered and bloody state. The Dwemer then spoke, looking down at the fallen Legate with equal parts amusement and detached apathy.

"I am Queen Anihata the First. The Immaculate One. Queen of all the Dwemer, in this world and all others. And I, Legate Rikke, am this world's destruction." She added, as she stepped forward and drove the Dawnbreaker through the Legate's noble heart.


	4. Chapter 4- Blood and Silver

**A/N Sorry it's been a while! Just to draw the attention of anybody whose been reading so far, I've rewritten the final part of Chapter 3. It's a small section but it makes a big difference upon the story,so I would strongly recommend rereading Chapter 3 so you don't get lost in later chapters. Basically the major character who died last chapter has been replaced because I realised their role was too big to just kill them off so quickly! Hopefully will have the next chapter within the week. Enjoy!**

Darkness was beginning to fall as Lucius made his way down the cobblestone road to Markarth, loose stones and dirt crunching softly under his horse's iron shod feet, kicking up small clouds of grey dust as it walked. To his left rose a jagged limestone cliff, a few pine trees defiantly hanging off the edge, whilst to his right the land fell away into another steep cliff, ending in a fast flowing river of black water far below, the distant forms of grey mudcrabs picking their way across the pebble strewn shoreline.

The canvas bag slung over his shoulder was filled with provisions, mainly smoked meats and a few bushels of carrots, whilst he nonchalantly ate an apple from his left hand, a blazing torch in the other. He didn't fear any of the bandit gangs who plagued the Markarth road. Most of them had fled when the dragons had first arrived and never returned, whilst the Forsworn had learnt to keep their distance from Lucius after he had struck down their leader, Madanach, whilst attempting to learn about the conspiracy within Markarth itself.

But as Lucius went he kept an eye on the deep grey clouds overhead, feeling similar to how he had when Alduin had ruled the skies of the province. And yet this time he would have given anything to hear the roar of a dragon above him. If he could somehow convince some of the venerable creatures to lend their Thu'um to fight the Dwemer, he knew that there might still be a chance of protecting Tamriel.

"Too bad I know nothing about them…" he said aloud, as if to banish the quiet sense of foreboding he got as he saw the ruined castles and tumbling waterfalls on all sides. He had delved into Dwemer ruins countless times, battled their automatons, even found his way into their capital city of Blackreach, far below the snowy tundra of the far north. But he couldn't say he had ever understood anything about that ancient race. Their technology baffled him and everything about them as a peoples were completely unknown to him. He only hoped that Markarth would give him some answers to his many questions.

As he turned the bend in the road he saw an overturned cart lying across the stones. By the time he saw the blood splatters on the rocks and the corpses of the cart's owners impaled on crude spears it was already too late. The first flight of arrows clattered off the road nearby or thumped into the side of the cart, and by then Lucius had drawn his sword, the moonlight reflecting off Dragonbane's black blade as he wheeled the horse around.

As he looked around wildly he heard the distinctive guttural roar of Falmer, loose stones clattering around him as the spindly pale goblin-like creatures scuttled down the cliff face to his left, whilst shadows in the caves overhead strung new arrows to their bows.

"For Talos' sake!" Lucius shouted out as the Falmer leapt down, cutting one in half as it jumped for him,whilist sending the others flying with a well-placed Unrelenting Force shout.

He grinned, feeling a sense of power as he rode down the other creatures as they tried to get up. Then there was a dull smack as an arrow embedded itself in his horse's neck and it went down in an instant, throwing Lucius into the road, sending a sharp pain into his shoulder as his armour dug into his skin.

Just as he began to pick himself up he felt a heavy blow slam into his back and he fell, winded momentarily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three Falmer rush forward hefting crude axes and another nocked another arrow to its bow, whilst a distant shadow clambered across the rocks far above.

Lucius cursed and desperately tried to shift himself into a fighting position, but was too late as one of the pale creatures leapt atop the horse's carcass, axe raised in both hands, ready to crush Lucius' head like an egg.

Suddenly there was a distant swish and a single steel tipped arrow slammed into the back of the axe wielding Falmer's head and it crumpled, falling off the horse whilst the others looked around blindly for the mysterious archer. Then another Falmer went down and the others, chittering and shrieking to each other in their guttural tongue, beat a hasty retreat, obviously not wanting to risk fighting this new enemy.

Seeing that now was his chance to escape, Lucius quickly, but painfully, pushed the dead horse off him and scrambled out, just as a figure jumped down from the rocks nearby, shouldering their bow as they came. He retrieved his swords, ready to fight this new attacker, but instead saw the identity of the mystery archer, and felt a sense of deep relief and grinned.

"Faendal!" He said with a laugh, embracing the thin white haired Bosmer in a tight grasp, the other man laughing along as they broke apart and he began retrieving his arrows from the dead Falmer. "How long has it been?"

"Since you stumbled into Riverwood dressed in an odd set of Imperial armour with ten Stormcloak axes in your pack from Helgen?" Faendal replied with a wide grin. "Two years I think. Since we last saw each other? Must have been that evening in Solitude where half the Imperial Legion seemed to have crammed themselves into every inn and tavern in the city just before you set out for Cyroddil. That was at least a year ago though, just before the Thalmor reared their arrogant faces again. Tell me, did you ever end up sleeping with that girl Serana?"

Lucius laughed, glad to share in memories of happier times as they walked the road toward Markarth together, glad his old friend had turned up just in the nick of time.

"Do you mean my new wife?"

Faendal's mouth fell open in mock astonishment.

"Always thought that was going to happen at some point that night. Then again I think I was under the table after foolishly challenging that Orc Legate to a drinking contest… I remember by the time I came to it was the day after and the entire Imperial army was gone. Speaking of which, what are you doing back in Skyrim? Everyone's been saying that you Imperials were about to push the Thalmor out of Morrowind and the whole Dominion was ripe for invasion…"

Lucius sighed, adjusting his pack on his shoulder as they passed over a weathered stone bridge.

"Things…happened…" he said, not being able to find words to describe the madness of the past day. "Long story short, the Thalmor are not our biggest problem anymore."

Faendal frowned, trying to gauge what his old friend meant, but his response was as light hearted as he always was. "Shame… I was making decent gold hunting down Thalmor spies in the highlands around here. Seems the Nords won't trust us Bosmer to join their armies but will let us hunt down our Mer cousins for coin. And save them the trouble."

"Look I want to explain it all to you but it's…"

"Dragonborn business?" Faendal finished for him with a slight frown. "I understand. I still remember when you spent a few months on Solstheim without so much as a letter to your motley collection of companions. And then there was that whole thing with the vampires before that. I'm glad I stayed back in Riverwood while that was going on…" he added with a sad smile. "So I know I probably won't understand the details of this special mission of yours, but can you at least tell me where it is you're headed? You look like you need some company."

"Markarth." Lucius replied simply. "I need to speak to Calcelmo about the Dwemer."

"Why? They haven't come back have they?" Faendal said, laughing slightly to himself, but then saw the grave expression on Lucius' normally jovial face and instantly was serious. "We need to pick up the pace then. The Falmer in these parts seem to have got a lot bolder in recent days. Maybe the two are connected?" he added helpfully and Lucius nodded, making a mental note to speak to Knight-Paladin Gelebor at the Chantry of Auri-El after his visit to Markarth. He was sure the ancient Snow Elf would remember something from his own meetings with the Dwemer. Any sort of information at that moment would be of great use, he thought to himself.

"Do you know anything about the Dwemer?" Lucius asked, hoping to break the silence that was beginning to descend between them, punctuated only by the distant crash of the river below.

"Only what I've heard from Alvor back in Riverwood. He had to make a trip up to Whiterun to find some books on forging Dwemer weapons for some rich fool from Falkreath who wanted a dwarven dagger for his collection of strange artifacts. He ended up discussing their smithing techniques a bit with me over a pint at the Sleeping Giant. Although come to think of it, my father owned a Dwemer helmet years ago. I remember seeing it in his study back in our home in Valenwood when I was a boy. Beautifully made but there was just something about it that felt…wrong. When he gave it to me I sold it off first chance I got and used the gold to get passage to Skyrim. I've never trusted any of that dwarven crap ever since…"

By now they had rounded the sides of a jagged outcrop, a squat stone Dwemer watchtower, and its golden domed roof still free of rust of marks after years of neglect, crowning its top, a green banner with the ram horn sigil of the Reach fluttering from its battlements.

Faendal looked noticeably uneasy at the sight of the loose collection of old Dwemer buildings up ahead that formed the mines and small farms outside Markarth's city walls and, as they passed through them, the dull clank of pickaxes and choking black smoke from the smelters filling the air, the two companions finally saw the capital of the Reach itself nestled in the mountains up ahead, the entire city lit up in a blaze of orange and yellow torchlight.

"No wonder they call it the city of stone." Lucius joked weakly, but still felt a sense of awe nonetheless at the sight up ahead.

The massive city wall loomed large up ahead, its battlements crested with the dull bronze of ancient Dwemer metal, watchtowers and arrow slits covering every inch of the ornately carved stone, whilst the shadows of city guards patrolled up and down. The vast bulk of the main guard tower looked down upon it all, but was still dwarfed by the vast mountains on all sides, and as Lucius and his companion walked toward the ornate gates, he noticed that the guards seemed uneasy, their hands constantly on their sword hilts or quivers, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

"The guards seem on edge." He muttered to Faendal, who nodded.

"It's the Forsworn…again." He said with a hint of frustration. "They became a lot bolder after the war was over and the dragon attacks stopped. Last week they burnt Karthwasten to the ground and there's been refugees trickling into the city from all over ever since. Most people are saying that Markarth's the only safe place in the Reach at the moment."

"For how long though?" Lucius said grimly as they headed through the city gates, getting approving comments on his armour and weapons from the guards, as always.

They passed into the market square, the stalls shutting up for the night as patrols of guards marched past, then on past the gently flowing mountain stream that tumbled down from above, to their left and right the houses and shops of the city marked by golden doors and walls carved into the rock.

When the two companions reached the gates to the Jarl's palace, Understone Keep, feeling the cool spray from the waterfalls nearby falling upon them, Lucius turned to Faendal, pulling a roll of paper and stick of charcoal from his pack and scribbling down a quick message, then signing off with the word 'Dragonborn' in the runes of the Dragon Language.

"Take this to the Jarl." He said firmly, pressing the message into the Bosmer's hand. "Make sure he reads it and understands it. Have his steward make a copy and send it to all the other hold capitals."

"Then what?"

"Get a horse from the stables and ride to the border with Cyroddil. There's an outpost of the Blades in Bruma. Give them the message and they should be able to take it from there, and then return to Riverwood. We're going to need all the men we can get soon enough."

Faendal looked about to protest, but then nodded grimly as Lucius passed him a small bag of gold.

"This should be enough for the fastest horse in the stables. Anything else keep for yourself."

The Bosmer didn't need telling twice, turning on his heel and pushing through the keep's gates and inside.

Lucius sighed, taking a second to look out over the sprawling city of stone and bronze beyond, to appreciate the brief moment of peace, then, trying to push images of Serana and his friends battling against the Dwemer without him out of his head, headed into the keep.

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Understone Keep was cold and filled with clanking and metallic scraping of ancient Dwemer machinery, much of which Lucius doubted its current occupiers understood. Passing through the group of city guards in green and brown scaled armour at the door, he continued to the left and into the vast open cavern that Calcelmo, one of Tamriels greatest experts on the Dwemer, had taken over as his own private laboratory and research station. The High Elf barely noticed the heavily armoured form of the Dragonborn, as usual. Humming softly to himself the Altmer continued meticulously examining the inner workings of a Dwarven crossbow with his long green tinted fingers, and spent another minute looking over the elegant but brutal weapon before finally turning to Lucius with an amiable but absent look on his lean face.

"Ah…you again." He said, barely seeming to remember the man who had brought dozens of unique dwarven artifacts to him over the years. Lucius didn't' take it as an insult. The old man may have seemed in a world of his own but his mind was quick and possessed huge amounts of knowledge about Tamriel's most unfathomable race that he hoped to take advantage of. "What is it this time? My nephew was telling me you had found some interesting artifacts in Morrowind recently."

Lucius felt a slight grin come to his face. Even in the midst of the Second Great War this brilliant but absent minded academic was still doing his research. But then that grin faded as he spoke.

"I need to speak with you about a...disturbing piece of news. Somewhere private."

Calcelmo breathed deeply.

"If this is about that Imperial excavation in Blackreach I…"

"The Dwemer have returned."

For the first time since he had met the Altmer historian, Lucius saw a look of surprise on the old man's face but his response was brisk and to the point.

"We shall discuss this in my private study."

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Calcelmo study was as cluttered and disorganised as always, but the old man simply threw aside half-finished projects and stacks of research notes as he sat down, motioning quickly for Lucius to do the same, his face flushed and red faced.

"Tell me everything. Leave nothing out."

Taking a deep breath, Lucius began.

"I was with a legion of the Imperial Army on the slopes of Red Mountain, working alongside the armies of House Redoran to push the Dominion and their Argonian allies back into Black Marsh. The force we were up against was the last obstacle before we marched on Black Marsh. The battle was going well, the Dominion's main force was nowhere to be seen then…they appeared. A whole army of Dwemer soldiers, automatons, everything. It was like nothing I had ever fought before. I mean, I've fought automatons and against people using dwarven arms and armour, but this was completely different. It was like fighting against a mountain or an ocean wave. Their armour was thick, their shields broad, their weapons….cut like the swords of Oblivion." He said, pausing for a moment, remembering the horror of seeing his brave friend Mjoll the Lioness hacked in two by a Centurion, the splash of blood across the shining gold axe blade. "I called upon all my powers, the Legion fought with the ferocity of Nordic berserkers. But none of it mattered. Even when I called in Odahviing he could barely make a dent in the Dwemer's ranks. I had to run… and I hate to say it but, if I hadn't, I would have died."

Calcelmo nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he said. "How did these Dwemer 'appear' as you put it?"

Lucius sighed. "It was insane. The whole Dominion army was lined up ready to fight then they started just dropping dead. It was a few at first, then entire regiments would just fall and die without a word, but you could see in their faces expressions of unimaginable pain. It was horrific."

"This is old and powerful magic Lucius." Calcelmo said simply, his face pale. "You may have used or heard of soul gems. Many use them. Mages and warriors alike. But the magic they use is an old and powerful one."

Lucius nodded, but he felt his skin crawl as he remembered the terrifying trip he and Serana had made to the nightmarish realm of the Soul Cairn. He had vowed one day that he would find a way to free those lost souls, and he knew that he would one day. "I know the magic of souls." He said simply as Calcelmo continued.

"But the use of souls in magic is not just through gems and soul trapping spells. The ancient Nords of the Dragon cult are known to have used ancient and terrible magic in their rituals called soul exchange- a life for a life, to put it simply. It's not my area of expertise, but I have heard theories that the Draugr of Nordic ruins are a result of these rituals, where one soul is sacrificed to bring another into this world, or to bind a soul to an object or body. I have believed for some time that this is how the Dwemer's automatons worked. They would sacrifice one soul, probably some poor captive of theirs, to bring their machines to life. But, you say that a whole army was wiped out by this magic?"

"Thousands. Elves and animals alike." Lucius said, still remembering the horror of watching an entire army wiped out in an instant.

Calcelmo was silent for a second before then saying "This is terrible magic. The Dwemer returning is an awful thing indeed.

"I thought you loved the Dwemer?" Lucius said with a furrowed brow. "Their technology, their society, this city is built upon that." He added, gesturing at the ornately carved stone room they sat in, reverberating with the distant clank of machinery.

"I respect them yes…" the old Altmer said evenly. "But don't mistake that respect for any kind of sympathy or affinity. They were a noble race in many ways of course. There are many stories of their skill in battle and the bravery and honour of their leaders and peoples. But they were in many ways an inherently evil race. They thought themselves above all others. The Dwemer of Skyrim blinded and tortured the Snow Elves into savage monsters. They slaughtered the ancient Chimer of Morrowind and the Nords of Skyrim alike. Their weapons of war cut through any and all whom faced them. No, Lucius…" he said sadly. "The return of the Dwemer is a curse upon Tamriel. Now, I need to know more before you leave. I know you must be ready to go and fight them. A noble quest at least, but I fear that thousands of years of technology and progress by the rest of Tamriel will be nothing compared to the armies of the Dwemer. Did you see any striking features or warriors in the Dwemer armies?"

Lucius furrowed his brow, remembering the awful scene playing out on the slopes of Red Mountain. "I remember automatons. Hundreds of them. Centurions, Spheres, Spiders bigger than men."

"It appears wherever the Dwemer have been they managed to make new automatons. All of their old ones were left behind when they disappeared. Wherever they have been, they still have the resources to outfit a new army." Calcelmo said, then gestured for Lucius to continue.

"There were warriors atop giant golden spiders, riding them like a man would a horse. They cut through General Tullius' Firstborn cavalry without even trying…"

"The Riders of Dahaka. I remember seeing a passage on them in one of my texts on the Rourken Clan of Hammerfell. The Redguards of old were hunted across the Al'ikr Desert by these riders in what they termed 'The Day of Red Sands'."

Lucius' eyes widened. He hadn't expected these ancient Dwemer regiments to still be active. But still he felt compelled to learn more as he spoke. "There were also these warriors, draped in blue cloaks, carrying long spears and with golden masks in the style of beautiful women."

"They are called the Guard of Kemel Ze, bodyguards to the king that resided in that ancient city by the sea in Morrowind. I have only seen a few tales mentioning them, but it appears that they were composed entirely of female Dwemer. This is very strange and foreboding indeed for these two great regiments to fight alongside each other…"

"Why?" Lucius demanded. He was, as Calcelmo had guessed, itching to be out there and fighting the Dwemer. But he knew he had much to learn, so sat forward in his seat as the old Altmer spoke again.

"You must understand my friend that the Dwemer were not a united peoples. If they had, they would have overrun and conquered all in their path. You see, the Riders of Dahaka are from the Rourken Clan of Hammerfell and the Guard of Kemel Ze hail from Morrowind, both of whom were deadly enemies whilst still on Tamriel. If you had known more of the different Dwemer clans when on the battlefield, you may have seen differences in colouring, emblems and insignia throughout the army. I fear that, wherever they have been for millennia, the Dwemer have united behind one leader to conquer all of Tamriel. And I don't believe that any army, of Men or of Mer, can stand against them…" he added darkly.

Lucius sighed deeply as Calcelmo stood up, a grim look on the elf's features as he said. "However that is not to say that I don't still have hope. Although the Dwemer are unlikely to agree to any kind of diplomacy, if what you saw at Red Mountain is any indicator, there may still be a chance of defeating them. I for one, will gather what texts and information I have and ride for Cyroddil. If anyone is in a position to stop the Dwemer, it is the legions of the Empire."

As he said this he turned for the door, then looked back at Lucius again as the Imperial asked.

"What if we can't stop them?"

Calcelmo looked him in the eye, and Lucius knew the elf was entirely honest in his words as he spoke.

"Well my friend, if the Dwemer win and enslave us all, what they did to the Snow Elves will seem almost merciful in comparison…"


	5. Chapter 5- The High Queen of the Dwemer

_In the Deep Halls, Far from Men_

_Forsaken __Red Mountain__, Twisted Kin_

_Hail the Mind, Hail the Stone_

_Dwarven__ Pride, Stronger than Bone_

(Ancient Chimer Verse: First Era)

Masser and Secunda,the twin moons of Nirn ,hung low in the morning skies over Red Mountain as the Dwemer army fortified its positions, ready to assault all of Tamriel.

The vast Dwemer fortress built in and around the foothills and slopes of the huge volcano once more rang with the clatter and ring of machinery, whilst legions of golden automatons clambered around the stone ramparts and stout golden domed watchtowers around the mountains edges, repairing the defences and adding to them. As the morning sunshine shone down and reflected off their armour, spherical Dwarven Ballistas took up firing positions in anticipation of a counter attack. It had been a few days since the destruction of the Imperial army, but the Dwemer were remaining cautious as always.

On a high stone rampart overlooking the red plains below, Queen Anihata, first High Queen of all Dwemer, looked out at this strange new world. Her pale features, tinted with a slight amount of gold, gazed down at the view beyond, watching the formations of golden Dwemer warriors and automatons marshalling far below, setting up battlelines and preparing themselves for battle. And yet, despite the impressive display of military might moving around at the base of Red Mountain, her face was still drawn and on edge, her gloved hands gripping the ramparts tightly.

At her back stood the silent forms of the Guard of Kemel Ze, their beautiful golden masks impassive and cold, their elegant armour looking out of place compared to the bulky armoured forms of other Dwemer soldiers standing by around them. And yet Anihata did not doubt their abilities. The slender golden daggers at their belts, and the tall pikes in their hands, had laid waste to the forces of the lesser races that had stood against them. She turned around as a clanking of armour and rustle of cloth announced the arrival of her second in command, General Bahrma of Clan Indar, who made his way through the many guards and scribes of Anihata's entourage to stand before her, bowing low so his elegantly curled beard reached his chest. Putting his right fist against his golden breastplate in the traditional dwarven gesture of loyalty, he straightened up, just taller than the queen, his bright golden eyes staring into Anihata's. Around his shoulders hung a thick red cape, the traditional colour of the Council of Warriors, one of the Four Councils of the Dwemer, and at his hip was belted a large shortsword, a single ruby set into the pommel.

"My queen." He said simply. "My men have secured the entire complex. The fortress seems to have taken minimal damage since we were last here. It will take our engineers and the automatons mere days to bring it back to its former glory."

Anihata nodded slowly. "Good. What of our enemies? And how much have our scholars managed to find out about the state of Tamriel? How long have we been gone?"

"It appears we have been absent for many centuries." Bahrma replied with a slight downward look. "The armies we destroyed are from two opposing empires, one hailing from Cyroddil and the other from Summerset Isle. Unfortunately the entire 'Dominion' army, as our prisoners call them, were wiped out by our own arrival. I managed to save enough of the 'Septim Empire' troops from our more…zealous soldiers for further questioning. They claim that they haven't seen or heard of our race in their lives, and that we are but legends to them. A few claimed that they had been to the ruins of our old cities and fortresses."

The High Queen turned to him, motioning for the general to walk with her as she set off away from the ramparts and down the high ceilinged corridor leading further into the mountain, her bodyguards and retinue following closely behind. As she walked, soldiers in full plate armour and engineers clad in flowing green robes bowed and moved aside respectfully, small spider automatons scuttling around their feet.

As they walked she spoke, her voice calm and collected, despite the fact every part of her body seemed on edge. "So it's true? We have actually returned to Tamriel? Kagrenac's calculations have finally paid off. As I thought the armies of Men and Mer were never able to stand against us. Any other changes we should be aware of?" she added shortly and Bahrma paused, staying quiet as they descended a set of cracked stone steps, a squad of Dwemer soldiers hefting crossbows marching quickly past and off to the battlements far above.

Bahrma had spoken at length with the Imperial prisoners, fascinated with their talk of how much the world had changed. An Orc Legate had spoken of the refounding of their old kingdom of Orsinium and recent peace talks with the savage giant clans of Skyrim ,while an Imperial battlemage had talked about his ancestors role in the 'Oblivion Crisis' centuries ago. And yet it had been the conversation he had had with a battered but defiant Nord legionnaire, the woman remaining proud and unbent in defeat as she and him spoke of the ancient city of Ysgramor, Windhelm, her home, and how she had spent weeks alongside an Imperial expedition exploring the ruins of the Dwemer city of Alftand. Bahrma had found himself saddened to hear of the sorry state of the city, the crumbling buildings, the crazed automatons and, worst of all, the horrifically deformed remnants of the Snow Elves, or Falmer as she had called them. Alftand had been his home when he had last walked Tamriel, and he remembered his great sadness and guilt at his fellows blinding and enslavement of the proud Snow Elves. Back then though he had been but a lowly soldier in that vast city. How times had changed…

"General?!" the queen snapped, and Bahrma quickly snapped out of his daydreaming. For a second Anihata gave him a hard stare as they stood in a wide open crossroads, groups of Dwemer and automations hurrying around them, but then relented as she began talking again.

"So, as I was saying, what changes have your men found?"

Bahrma shook his head. "Too many to count my queen." He replied respectfully. "Our old enemies- the Chimer, are gone, cursed by Azura to become the Dunmer, or Dark Elves." He noticed Anihata smile slightly at the irony of that. "The savage Nords are part of this 'Septim Empire' and our great city states and empires lie in ruins, little more than the haunts of the Falmer." The last line he said with a slight sense of melancholy in his voice, remembering the terrible days of the Snow Elves betrayal by his kinsmen, and the horrors of the War of the Crag.

Anihata looked truly sad for a second, and the general was sure he saw a single tear trace its way across the livid scar on her cheek, but then the mask of the aloof ruler was back and they contained along, descending deeper and deeper into the stronghold.

"I need to know all of it." She declared simply. "Have the scribes write up all that our interrogators have found and have it sent to my chambers. Now, what have your forces discovered about these lesser races now you have had a chance to examine their settlement?"

The general was confused for a second, but then realised she was talking of the large camp of the Imperial Legion he and his soldiers had discovered after the last of the Empire's soldiers had fled or surrendered. Unlike his fellows, who regarded the primitive technologies of the Kar-Din, or lesser races, the term in Dwemeris used to refer to any people but their own, as almost laughable in their simplicity, Bahrma had been fascinated. The technology had, admittedly, been far beneath them, the steel armour, the animal skins and crudely dyed fabrics. And yet, Bahrma had found it almost endearing, as if these Men and Mer of the Empire were closer to nature than the distant and almost cold technology of the Dwemer. It made him think of how his children had once brought him their own crude attempts at engineering, a partially repaired Spider automaton bound with string and scrap metal or a wounded deer from outside with a new leg made from offcuts from the workshops of the animunculories. Thinking of them brought a smile to his face, but it was gone as he looked at the queen once more.

Realising the queen would be expecting an answer, he replied quickly. "The camp provided us with some useful information, but we also recovered some more of the Daedric artifacts you seek."

At mention of the Daedra Bahrma noticed a sense of uneasiness and quiet rage descend upon the entirety of the queen's retinue, but was no less pronounced on the face of the queen herself, who grimaced noticeably as she replied.

"Which did you recover?"

The general sighed. "It appears the Dawnbreaker of Meridia was the only useful one we acquired since we came here. All we could find was the Masque of Clavicus Vile and the staff of Sheogorath. It was hard for me to convince many of my men not to take those accursed things and hurl them into the volcano's core…" he added bitterly. He knew that all Dwemer had much to hate the Daedra for…

The queen however, seemed to have gotten over her initial distaste at mention of the Daedra, and spoke evenly. "All of the artifacts are important, general, no matter how pointless they may seem. The downfall of the Daedra shall be their own undoing soon enough… Have the artifacts taken to the Tonal Architects as soon as possible. Their initial experiments with the Dawnbreaker have proven most enlightening."

"Of course my queen. Anything else? The Council of the Warriors has demanded that I see to the defences of the Mountain at once and I would not wish to disappoint them. It appears our scouts are reporting increased enemy activity a few miles from the Mountain"

Anihata nodded. "Go. I must speak with Kagrenac. The Tonal Bridge is almost complete. Soon general. Soon the whole Dwemer race will be able to appreciate our new freedom from the clutches of the Daedra…"

General Bahrma bowed low again, his cape falling around him as he turned on his heel and marched away, his small entourage of trusted warriors falling into step behind him.

The queen smiled as she watched him go. The general may have been young, but the Age of Change, the seemingly harmless term the Dwemer used to describe their hellish imprisonment by the combined forces of the Daedric Princes for the last three eras, if their prisoners had been correct, had made all of her subjects as hard and unyielding as the golden metals and strong stone they were so well known for, even now. She tried not to think about the horrors she had seen in the past, the unending tortures of the Daedra, the increasingly complex and devious prisons they had inflicted upon the Dwemer, all in an attempt to show them the error of their ways. And, Anihata thought to herself, in that the Daedra had succeeded. She, and her race, did not wish to become gods any more.

They wished to destroy them.

With her thoughts still buzzing round her head, she came to the imposing golden doors that led to the central Oculory of Red Mountain, the centre of the Tonal Architects work in the fortress city. Two Steam Centurions stood on guard either side of the door, both hissing and clanking slightly as Anihata stood confidently between them, motioning for her retinue to leave her as she stepped through the two huge doors and into the grand circular room beyond.

The Oculory was a hive of activity, groups of purple robed Tonal Architects, ornate banded gold armour covering their chests and thick purple tinted goggles covering their eyes, scuttling around the cavernous space, working at large circular consoles or carrying stacks of scrolls and bizarre metal contraptions.

Anihata tried not to let her unease show as she walked past the rows of strange machinery and bowing forms of Tonal Architects, towards the construction at the centre of the room.

The so called 'Tonal Gateway' or 'Tonal Bridge' ,as Kagrenac had called it, resembled an open sphere, composed of slender golden bands, each with a large polished mirror at the end. As the queen approached, the entire sphere shifted and moved on its axis, allowing her to step within. As she did so one of the robed Architects appeared at her side.

"The Bridge has been stabilised my queen." He said in a submissive tone, diverting his eyes from her figure. 'As he should' Anihata thought as she replied.

"Good. How long until we can begin bringing people and materials through?"

The Architect paused, his eyes widening behind his goggles.

"I said, when?" Anihata asked firmly, with a slight frown.

"We still need to run some final tests. Communication between Mundus and the realms of the Daedra, what the lesser races call Oblivion, is possible, but…" the Tonal Architect added, his brow furrowing. "It will take a few days to stabilise the Bridge enough to start sending people to and fro, as such…"

The queen sighed inwardly. The machines of the Tonal Architects had always slightly unnerved her. The Automatons and weaponry of her Engineers was what she really respected. "I need it powered up and ready. Kagrenac must know of the new developments." She said, and the Tonal Architect bowed and left the sphere, the deep hum as the machine powered up filling the air and the sphere's outer skin, made of pure gold studded with pale blue gems, slid into place, leaving Anihata alone in the green lights of the small 'infinite candle' lights.

Looking up, Anihata watched the mirrors and slender gold bands moving and shifting in increasingly complex patterns, until they reached a specific point and stopped, projecting three interlocking white lights which then came together into the shape of a standing figure. As the light shifted and calibrated, the figure then fleshed out into a surprisingly lifelike projection of an old Dwemer, old even by their long lived standards, dressed in a more ornate version of the gold armour and purple robes of the other Tonal Architects, a brilliant snow white beard, filled with countless golden rings and small gems, hanging down to his waist. Dipping her head in a gesture of respect, Anihata said softly.

""Lord Kagrenac."

The old Dwemer bowed, but it was by no means as sincere or respectful as the others Anihata received from the rest of the Dwemer. "My queen." He replied simply. "How are you finding Mundus?" he asked without a hint of humour.

"We've secured Red Mountain and defeated an army of Men and Mer claiming to be from the 'Septim Empire'. They took to flight soon after our arrival. One of them even called down a dragon and it took off within a minute."

Kagrenac raised one grey eyebrow.

"A dragon you say? Interesting. I had heard that General Bahrma was eager to test out those dragon killing tactics he had always boasted of. Now, what of the Daedra? Have they contacted you in any way? We can't afford to let them know too much about our purpose here. Your position on Mundus is too weak, and we still in Oblivion are left defenceless until this Tonal Bridge is established to link the two realities."

Anihata tried not to let her slight sense of confusion enter her voice as she replied. She would never understand half of what Kagrenac said, but she still respected his counsel above all others.

"How are our peoples? I understand that we managed to rebuild after our time in Coldharbour?"

Kagrenac let a small smile cross his face at that point, and his mirth was obvious in his voice. "Yes. Molog Bal always was one of the less intelligent of the Daedra. Once we rebuilt our automatons his legions of vampires learnt to stay away soon enough. But there are bigger problems at hand, my queen." He added, with a sense of urgency. "There was a realm shift whilst you and your forces were gone. We have left the relative safety of Clavicus Vile's realm and entered another…"

Anihata's eyes widened. Ever since Kagrenac's experiment at the Battle of Red Mountain, the Dwemer had been thrown from one realm of Oblivion to the other, fated to spend all of eternity there. Some, such as Clavicus Vile's realm, had proven almost bearable, whilst those of Hermaeus Mora and Peryite had actually helped their cause. But she almost shuddered as she briefly though back to the horrors of the others, of the Land Without Rest of Vaermina, the endless battles of Hircine's Hunting Grounds, and the Hall of Eternal Light of Meridia's realm.

The elderly Tonal Architect continued. "Vile's realm gave us a breathing space, a chance we haven't had since the Pits of Peryite. But now we are once again the plaything of Azura. She mocks us with this new prison of hers." He added, then turned to some unseen set of controls and a small light appeared by his side, growing larger until it was the height of Anihata, then widening to at least a few metres across. "This is our new prison."

The light cleared to show what looked like the inside of a huge sphere of solid gold, almost Dwemer-like in appearance, covered in countless gems as bright as suns. As she looked further Anihata saw what looked like a Dwemer city at the centre of it, or at least the foundations of one, literally carved out of the gold of the sphere.

"You say this was Azura's doing?" Anihata asked with a raised eyebrow. "This doesn't exactly seem…awful."

Kagrenac shook his head. "It's not the prison that's the real horror of this place. Look closely at the sides of the sphere."

The queen, fighting back questions, peered further into the image next to the Tonal Architect, at the sides of the huge golden construction. Then she saw them. Huge dents and impressions in the sphere's gold skin, as if a giant fist had struck the outside.

"Those are the marks left by the fists of the Lord of Destruction himself- Mehrunes Dagon. He has been howling and calling out to us for days now since he arrived, telling us constantly of how he will devour us all. This is no mere prison, my queen. Once those golden walls are breached, there will be nothing stopping Dagon and his legions of Dremora from overrunning our defences and wiping us out."

Anihata paused, trying to let what Kagrenac was saying sink in. If Dagon were to breach those walls, the majority of the Dwemer race would be wiped out while the rest were left to live with the guilt. It was the ultimate last injustice by Azura, that, after surviving all the other nightmares of the Daedra, it would come down to the Prince of Destruction himself to make the Dwemer extinct.

"We have to run…" Kagrenac said simply. "We must bring our people across the Tonal Bridge and back into Tamriel." There was a real sense of defeat in the old man's voice, as if once more having to face the imminent extinction of his race had knocked all of his previous confidence out of him.

"Yes of course." Anihata said simply, but then her voice took on a firmer and much more confident tone. "We will flee from the Daedra for now. But not for long. We have secured some of their artifacts and may still be able to tap into their power."

"You're suggesting we use the Daedra's own weapons against them?" Kagrenac said with a sense of both disbelief and awe. "But what then? We cannot become gods like we once wished."

Anihata smiled and clasped her hands together.

"No." she said. "But, with the power of the Daedra's artifacts, and our own technology, we can destroy them."

000000

As High Queen Anihata made her plans with Kagrenac, General Bahrma emerged out of the main gates of Red Mountain, clambering nimbly atop his mount, a horse sized spider automaton, setting his helmet, crested with an elegant red plume and displaying a stern Dwemer face across its visor ,atop his head, and looked out over the plain beyond.

Stretching out in long unbroken lines of golden armoured warriors, the Dwemer battlelines stretched around the foothills of Red Mountain, ten thousand strong men and automatons strong, groups of soldiers with crossbows and elegant golden bows taking up position on the high ground as Bahrma marched down the ranks of silent soldiers atop his mechanical mount. His bodyguard, composed of three towering Centurion automatons and a host of armoured Dwemer warriors atop their own spider mounts, formed up around him, his main second in command, Volendun, clattering in alongside him, a polished golden longsword in one hand and a blue runed communication lexicon in the other, nodding respectfully at the general.

"What have the scouts reported about our enemy?"

Volendun laughed slightly, but his expression was unreadable behind his helmet. "It's a large force, I'll give it that. At least twenty thousand strong. Our captives identified them by their banners as hailing from House Redoran. Mainly composed of infantry formations of these 'Dunmer' that replaced the Chimer, outfitted in crude armour made of bones and chitin, but also a large group of Imperial forces, probably many that fled the field when we first arrived. You should be able to see them now." He added, pointing out across the plain with his sword as Bahrma drew his telescope from his belt, removing his helmet briefly as he put the golden telescope to his eye.

About a mile away he found the enemy forces, just as Volendun had described them, large blocks of soldiers in armour made of bone, marching straight toward the Dwemer lines, large red and black banners, along with the now familiar dragon crest of the Septim Empire, visible throughout the ranks.

Closing up his telescope and replacing his helmet, Bahrma turned to his second in command.

"Relay the message throughout the army. Cohorts Akah to Jarrak will engage the enemy from the front. Cohorts Yikar and Tel-Ke will flank them whilst all archer divisions move to provide covering fire. Tell Engineer Nasir that I want every one of his Centurions and Spheres ready to support the frontal attack."

"What about us sir?" Volendun asked as he began typing the orders for each cohort into the communications lexicon.

Bahrma smiled behind his helmet, glad that he was now in his element.

"As for us, we shall give these men an honourable fight. Charge on my command!"

And, as Bahrma prepared himself for battle, he watched as the first of his units began to move outward, ready to crush the forces of House Redoran, and the plains of Tamriel shook as the armies of the Dwemer marched to war once again.


	6. Chapter 6- King of the Giants

When the Dragonborn marched out of the Reach two days after his stop in Markarth, it was with an army at his back.

Mounted atop a large strong backed chestnut draft horse, Lucius rode at the head of a column of one thousand of Markarth's city guard, all outfitted in green cloaks and brown scale mail armour and hefting stout wooden shields and a collection of steel war axes and Imperial-made swords. As he glanced behind, his Dragonbone armour, specially quilted on the inside for easier movement, pressing slightly into him, Lucius could just make out the fading sun light glinting off the heavy armour of the five hundred soldiers of the Imperial Legion bringing up the rear of the column. In the treeline around them moved the small but quick shapes of the force's scouts, made up of native Breton Reachmen in deep green cloaks armed with longbows, making sure no Forsworn raiders or Stormcloak remnants were waiting in ambush. The old Dwemer road was wide enough for ten men to march abreast at once, and as the army marched forward on foot, he could see the various Markarth and Imperial captains on horseback, along with standard bearers holding aloft Imperial dragon and Reach ram's head banners.

Ahead stretched the road to Whiterun, at least two more days march for the Jarl's men. Jarl Igmund had been more than happy for Lucius to lead his men to the court of High King Balgruuf and pledge his aid against the Dwemer. Besides the fact that the Jarl had had Calcelmo explaining the situation to him for a few hours before Lucius managed to speak to him, the Jarl evidently recognised the fragile position he and the people of the Reach were in. As a former regional stronghold of the Dwemer alongside Eastmarch and the Pale up north, Jarl Igmund must have feared that the Dwarves would bring their automaton armies crashing against his walls first.

Looking around him at the crumbling Dwemer monuments and remains of ancient watchtowers on the steep crags above, Lucius briefly caught the eye of his housecarl from Markarth, the sour faced but physically intimidating Argis the Bulwark. The burly Nord nodded respectfully at Lucius, keeping his right hand near his sword sheath and the other firmly on the reins of his own horse.

"Expecting trouble Argis?" Lucius asked and the big man nodded.

"I always expect something, my thane. Means I'm not surprised when anything happens. I know the Jarl's always saying the Forsworn are a minor threat, but I've lost too many friends to those madmen to let up now.

As he said this there came a clatter of hooves on cobbled stone as an Imperial Legate in full armour, his helmet off to reveal a thin faced Breton man with an impressive goatee, rode up alongside the Dragonborn and his housecarl, two other soldiers on horseback carrying Imperial standards at his back.

"Dragonborn." The Legate said, dipping his head.

"Legate Galliverie." Lucius said respectfully. "How are the troops?"

"In high spirits. I've had the quartermaster get some torches ready. Nights drawing in and we'll need to pitch camp soon. I just want to get out of the Reach before we do…" he added with a nervous grin.

Lucius nodded. He could understand the paranoia his two companions were feeling, despite both being capable warriors and the match of any Forsworn raider. "Any reports from the scouts?"

"Nothing much. The rear-guard even managed to bag a few rabbits. I'm just glad all the other scouts have been reporting nothing. I mean its bad enough worrying about the Dwemer in Morrowind without having to think about the barbarians on your doorstep."

"Do you know anywhere good to camp around here Argis?" Lucius asked and the Nord responded with a gruff yes.

"There's a Giant camp a few miles north of here. We can make it in about an hour. Caves of the Elders it's called. I only know it because an old mercenary friend of mine, Gorkur, a big Orc from out west, told me he was taking some of his old kin from a stronghold in the Reach and setting up a new outpost there."

"Orcs and Giants working together…" Galliverie said with a roll of his eyes. "Never believed it until I heard the stories about the Giants actually sending an ambassador to the Imperial City. He was naked except for a scrap of mammoth hide and needed an old Orc to translate for him but I heard the big bastard actually got an audience with the emperor himself!"

Lucius shook his head in disbelief. Even he had thought it a strange joke or drunken rumour when he heard of Giants allying with the Empire and asking for aid from their Orc 'cousins'. But General Tullius, the man who Lucius had never known to even smile, had confirmed the story, even told of how the Giant ambassador had almost stood on him during his meeting with the emperor.

As he looked ahead into the gathering darkness Lucius saw the soldiers behind them readying torches, driving back the growing night.

"Stranger things have happened." Lucius said simply. "The Dwemer are back. Giants are developing intelligence. Maybe Sheogorath actually does influence the world…"

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When they reached the 'gates' of the Giant camp Argis had called the Caves of the Elders, the large column found their path blocked by a large wall made out of boulders and tree trunks, along with more advanced spiked palisades topping it, evidently added by the Orc's the Giants were allied with.

"Well this is comforting." Galliverie said sarcastically as the large gates, made in the Orcish style from heavy logs and iron spikes, opened inwards and a group of Orcs in full armour carrying large battle-axes came marching out, at their head a huge Orc with a warhammer that looked like a small giant's club in hand. The huge Orc, who Lucius guessed to be the leader, planted his feet in a combat pose and shouted at the large army before him fearlessly.

"Who are you to trespass upon this land? You humans think yourselves above us all? Why do you come with torches and swords to burn these giants out?"

Sensing a growing tension from the troops behind him, and noticing the Orcs hiding in the dense bushes around the base of the wall with bows and axes at the ready, Lucius spurred his horse forward, keeping his hands away from his sheathed Blades' swords, Argis at his side.

Instantly the large Orc's face broke into an ugly but genuine smile, his large teeth set in a grin.

"Argis my old friend!" he called out. "I didn't realise you were still with the Jarl's men."

Argis nodded, his normally stony face actually showing some semblance of a smile for once.

"It's good to see you Gorkur. I didn't realise you were successful in getting through to the giants either."

"It was hard but we share common ancestors from eras back. Plus they've had it just as hard as us to get accepted by many people. We have a common interest." Gorkur replied. "Your men have nothing to fear."

"We need shelter for the night." Argis said firmly, Lucius and the Legate staying quiet, knowing that the grim Nord housecarl would be able to handle the situation best. "Our men are weary from marching from Markarth and we don't feel safe out in the open. Even Whiterun Hold isn't entirely safe these days."

Gorkur nodded.

"Of course. I will have to speak to the Giant's chieftain King Galan. But this stronghold is strong and more than large enough for your own men and horses."

As the big Orc let his club fall to his side and marched back inside the Giant fort with his retinue, Galliverie turned to Lucius.

"Can we trust them?"

The Dragonborn shrugged, a jovial grin on his face.

"Look pretty much every single place in this province that isn't an Imperial fort or major city is usually full of bandits or worse. If trusting a whole stronghold full of Giants is what it takes to get a good night's sleep, I'll take it." He said with a shrug and the Legate suppressed a laugh.

"General Tullius wasn't lying when he said you were a bit too easy-going… When I heard I was working with the Dragonborn I was expecting some huge Nord with a beard down to his chest, not a skinny Imperial. No offence of course sir."

Lucius grinned. "Just because I could Shout you to pieces for that doesn't mean I will. Who am I, Ulfric Stormcloak?"

The two men laughed nervously, the only other sounds from the army behind being the low conversation between the soldiers and the nervous snorting of horses.

Then the Orc Gorkur emerged from the gates again, and walked up to Lucius and his two companions. He nodded slowly.

"King Galan says you may stay in his stronghold for the night. But he wishes to speak with you Dragonborn." He added, then turned on his heel and marched back inside the fort, beckoning for Lucius and the others to follow.

As the soldiers marched forward Lucius spurred his horse on, hearing the cracking of reins from the supply carts and Imperial soldiers far behind them as he and Argis passed through the gate, the Or watchmen clutching torches and bows to themselves warily as the army marched past.

"How did he know I was the Dragonborn?" Lucius muttered as they passed through the small bottleneck made of high boulders and sharpened wooden stakes beyond the gate.

"It's not like anyone else would have the balls to wear a full set of Dragonbone armour…" Galliverie replied simply and Lucius shrugged.

Then they emerged into the fort interior itself and Lucius felt a slight sense of wonder at how different it was to the more primitive Giant camps.

The interior of the fort was the size of a small town, bordered on all sides by the boulder and wooden palisade walls, rising up to at least twice the height of a man so, even on horseback, Lucius couldn't see over to the other side. Inside the majority of the buildings were huge houses made of boulders with tree trunks as roofs, and Giants came stumbling out of them, all of them the same bearded males with clubs Lucius was used to seeing. Around the Giant's houses were clusters of more Orcish buildings, built to human size with the pointed roofs and circular style that the Dragonborn recognised from the other Orc strongholds he had visited.

The column passed through the main 'street' of Giant houses, their occupants eyeing them warily, past a large group of bare chested Orc men with pickaxes and into a large open area large enough to fit the village of Riverwood in at least twice, which was empty except for a few hairy cows and, in the distance the unmistakable bulk of mammoths. From where he was Lucius could just see the light of large Orc forges past the open area, shadows of figures visible lit up in the red glow.

"Your men will stay here." Gorkur said gruffly. "There is enough space for your tents and your horses can be stabled with our own animals."

The Legate looked ready to complain but Lucius quickly answered instead. "Of course. Thank you Gorkur."

The Orc nodded, seeming slightly surprised at Lucius politeness then simply turned away saying. "You will come with me Dragonborn."

Argis looked about to follow but Gorkur shook his head. "No. I am sorry my friend but we do not want to anger the Giant's chief. He requested only the Dragonborn to speak with him."

The burly housecarl dipped his head and turned back to the soldiers now spreading out across the open area, already pitching tents and setting up cooking fires as the night began to roll in.

"Take me to the chief." Lucius said firmly and they set off, through a row of Orc huts and stockpiles of wood and iron ingots stacked up neatly.

The Orc sighed as they passed by a group of Giants who eyed both of them mistrustfully.

"The Giants don't approve?" Lucius asked.

"The Giants don't exactly 'approve' of us Orcs either but they put up with us. They know that we're the only chance of them getting accepted by the Empire."

"Why hasn't the emperor sent anyone?"

"Better things to do I guess, with the war and all. Besides, all the Nords in these parts wouldn't care if a dragon came down and wiped this whole settlement out and waste a years' worth of work by me and my fellow Orcs."

As he said this a large rocky outcrop rose up ahead of them, crowned at the top by an Orc made watchtower of sawn logs and spiked metal.

But it was the outcrop itself which fascinated Lucius. Seemingly every inch of the huge stony hill was covered in symbols painted on in deep brown and red paints, mainly crude circles but also large runes that looked almost like the Dragon language, large figures twice the size of a man and crude images of what looked like small men with swords attacking the larger figures.

Passing through another palisade wall, the Orc and the Imperial came to the entrance to a huge cave, at least ten metres high and as wide, a Giant with a stone club dressed in crude armour made of bones and scraps of iron standing guard alongside two Orcs that looked almost puny by comparison, even in full armour. The three guards let them pass, the two Orcs gazing in wonder at Lucius' Dragonbone armour, and their eyes widened even further as he removed his helmet and tied it to his belt, revealing his slim Imperial features.

"They were expecting someone taller?" Lucius said with a grin as they passed into the cave and the Orc laughed gruffly.

The cave beyond, instead of going further back like Lucius had expected, instead went down in a steep but large stairway, evidently built to Giant size as the Lucius and Gorkur found themselves having to take comically large steps to make their way down. As they headed down Lucius noticed the marks of primitive tools on the walls, and realised that this was no natural cave.

"The Giants must have taken years to carve this out." He said simply and Gorkur grunted in agreement.

"Impressive isn't it? I guess everyone was wrong when they thought they were all stupid beasts. They're still not 'tame' by your standards though, Imperial." He added darkly as they passed by a row of sharpened stakes with Troll heads impaled on them. And, as Lucius looked closer, he saw human bodies on a few of them, mainly dressed in Forsworn rags or crude bandit armour.

"Who were they?"

"It doesn't matter." Gorkur replied simply. "They angered the Giants. That's all it takes. You had better hope that your men aren't stupid enough to annoy them. There's a lot more Giants here than just those ones on the surface."

As the Orc said this they came to the bottom of the staircase, and began walking down a high ceilinged corridor, various caves opening on both sides.

And it was then that Lucius caught his first glimpse of female Giants and children.

The females were slimmer but still formidable, with piercing deep blue eyes and grey skin, their hair long and tangled, while their clothes were large ragged dresses, in many ways similar to the rough peasant clothing many farmers Lucius had met wore, but much cruder and bedecked with bone amulets. The children were small, but still the height of a tall Nord or High Elf, with long gangly arms and short wiry hair, hiding behind their mother's knees with fearful expressions.

"Many of these giants are from the Pale." Gorkur explained in a low voice as they passed by more cave dwellings. "The dumb savage Giant tribes that give the others a bad name attacked Nord settlements many times over the years until a few years back Jarl Skald sent out his soldiers and wiped out all the tribes, no matter of whether they were dumb brutes or peaceful. These are all that's left…"

As he finished speaking Lucius felt a deep feeling of guilt inside him. How many of the giants he had killed for bounties had been savages? How many of the more peaceful ones had he killed thinking they were stupid brutes?

He pushed these thought out of his mind as they came to a huge open cavern, lit by fires from crude braziers made from mammoth tusks and stone, at least thirty Giants clustering around the edges, sat with crossed legs or stood against the walls, their clubs by their sides.

As they walked through the lines of mistrustful Giants Lucius looked up ahead and saw the Giant's chieftain.

King Galan was huge even by Giant standards, at least a head above the two others who stood by him, presumably as bodyguards. His beard was long and flowing, flecked with some grey but mostly a deep black, while his 'crown' was made of human bones and pieces of malachite. But it was the armour that the Giant leader wore that impressed Lucius the most. Huge pieces of hammered Orichalcum made up the majority of it, but there were still many Giant influences, mainly in the form of bones and pieces of mammoth hide and leather to hold it all together. And, at the waist, in a strange nod to Imperial armour designs, was a chainmail and leather skirt dyed red, like a huge version of Imperial Legion armour.

Lucius felt his heart pounding as he approached the Giant king. He had fought Giants before but had never been up so close to them like this. The Giant rose from his throne, made from ancient Nordic columns and weathered tree trunks, and stood, his hand reaching for his club, a terrible looking weapon made from the wing bone of a Dragon studded with iron swords on its edges for extra damage.

"Don't show any fear." Gorkur muttered to Lucius as King Galan advanced upon him, his club held in a firm grip, his other hand curling into a fist. "Don't back down or he'll see you as beneath him and not worth his time."

The giant stopped barely a metre away from Lucius, drew his head back and let out one low bellow which echoed across the room, a deafening roar as loud as that of a Dragon.

Lucius' eyes widened, genuine fear obvious in his eyes but he stopped, taking a deep breath as the Giant's grip on his club tightened. Calling upon all his knowledge and ability, the Dragonborn raised his own head, staring straight up at the giant as he shouted back.

"Yol-Toor-Shul!"

As the words left his lips there was a faint impression of Dragon runes in the air ahead of him, instantly changing to a red hot ball of flame, which shot out and impacted against the wall right next to where King Galan stood, the other Giants noticeably stepping back from the spectacle of seeing ancient magic in action, and even the Giant king flinched slightly, his eyes widening.

Then the Giant opened his gaping mouth again, and Lucius felt a stab of fear in him. Had he angered the king even further? Was he now going to crush him like a walnut?

Then the king's booming laughter echoed across the room, soon taken up by the other occupants of the room, and Gorkur clasped Lucius on the shoulder and nodded.

"You've done it Dragonborn." He said respectfully. "You've scared one of the most fearsome creatures in Skyrim and earned his undying respect."

The Giant king spoke now, his tone guttural and deep, the words grating and incompressible to Lucius. But Gorkur listened and then translated for Lucius.

"King Galan is impressed by your fire, both in person and spirit." He said. "But he wishes to know why you bring an army to his tribe's land?"

"I bring an army because the Dwemer have returned and wish to make war upon all of Tamriel."

Gorkur's eyes widened but he stayed calm and translated to the king, who only nodded slowly and spoke again, his brows furrowing.

"He says that he does not know who the Dwemer are." Gorkur said. "He remembers the Old One- their tribes' wise man and oldest living member." Gorkur explained" He remembers him telling stories of the 'elves-of-the-square-houses' who made war against his people and the 'men-who-prayed-to-the-dragons' who fought against them in long ages past."

Lucius nodded. "Can we speak with this 'Old One'?"

Gorkur spoke to the king again, and the Giant nodded and pointed one gangly arm at a side passage marked by troll skulls and huge torches made from pine trees.

"The Old One is in the Cave of Stories." The Orc said, then motioned for Lucius to follow him.

As they left the room Lucius felt the eyes of every Giant in the room fall upon him, and heard them speak in hushed tones amongst themselves, a slight sense of reverence obvious in their voices.

000000

The Cave of Stories was down a long passageway, much lower than the other caves they had been in.

"The Giants believe in the power of stories and ancient legends." Gorkur said, his voice echoing in the long tunnel, lit only by the torches he and Lucius held aloft. "This tunnel was made in such a way that only those who kneel before their ancestor's wisdom can enter."

The tunnel opened out into another cave, this one lit by dozens of torches and braziers, casting strange shadows across the room. As he stepped inside Lucius felt his eyes drawn to the countless paintings and carvings upon the walls, and marvelled at the surprising detail that many of them displayed.

But then his eyes fell upon the lone occupant of the room and he felt a sense of humility amongst his wonder. The Giant that sat before them, draped in a mammoth fur cloak and his snow white beard pooling around his feet, was ancient, every inch of his blue-grey skin covered in wrinkles along with the scars of ancient battles. As they drew closer Lucius saw the Old One's legs were thin and shrunken, as if he was so ancient his body had begun to weather like the old stone in ancient ruins. His arms as well were thin and spindly, his fingers long and almost humanlike compared to the disproportionate limbs of other Giants. It was then that Lucius realised that those delicate paintings and pictures upon the walls had not been done by human hands, but by those of the Giant before him.

"You have come…Dragonborn." The old Giant said, and Lucius didn't even feel surprised at the Old One knowing the Common Tongue, he had evidently been around long enough to learn it. Even so the Giant's words were low and rumbling like his fellows in the other cave, and he paused every few words, as if searching for the right word was a challenge for him. "I have…seen many Eras but never one of the Dragonkin."

Lucius dipped his head respectfully, as did Gorkur, and the Old One smiled as Lucius spoke.

"I heard that you had knowledge of the Dwemer."

"The Elves-of-the-Square-Houses?" The Old One replied with one snow white eyebrow raised. "I remember them well. They walked the earth when I was but a … youngling. We called them Dwarves… We had peace with them, and the 'Men-who-prayed-to-the-dragons' for many years. But they…built their golden cave cities and grew proud."

As he said this he gestured with one withered arm to a painting to his left and Lucius looked over, seeing a large depiction of Giants in grey wielding clubs alongside what could only be ancient Nordic warriors. And, to the right of the Giants and their Nord allies, were rank upon rank of Dwemer soldiers, painted in vivid gold and blue, their lines orderly and regimented even on a crude cave painting.

"They made war…against us." The Old One said. "We fought against them with club and fist…stone and foot. The men-who-prayed-to-the-dragons used their magic and Shouted them down. But it was not enough." He added in a low voice, as if remembering ancient battles and his role in them.

"Then they came…." He said, and Lucius looked along the cave wall, past the scenes of Dwemer armies driving back the Giants and Nords, to the unmistakable black wings and tongues of orange flame issuing from the gaping maws of-

"Dragons."

The Old One nodded. "The gods of the…Nords. They came down from on high and smote the Dwarves and they retreated deep into the mountains."

Lucius looked at the paining for a few more minutes, glancing over to see Gorkur marvelling at the artwork himself.

"But the Dwemer weren't defeated were they?" Lucius said simply, and the Old One shook his head sadly.

"They made…new weapons."

As he said this he stood up, his cloak falling to his knees, and, with trembling steps, walked over to a mammoth fur blanket thrown against what Lucius assumed to be an outcropping of rock.

But then the Old One pulled the mammoth fur away, and Lucius felt himself step back slightly as the torchlight reflected off the battered but still shining form of a Dwemer Centurion.

"We captured this during one of the battles with them." The Old One explained. "We caught it in strong ropes and the men-who-worshipped-dragons bound it in chains of iron but it still moved. We kept it in this cave for centuries and it's…power….did not fade. I watched over it every day for decades and it kept trying to escape."

"Why does it not move now then?" Gorkur asked simply, his hand clenching the handle of his warhammer in a tight grip.

"Its power died when the Dwarves disappeared." The Old One said as he settled back upon the floor. "I watched from this exact…place…as the light left its cold metal eyes and it…was still."

"Could you tell our soldiers how to fight against the Dwemer now that they are back?" Lucius asked. He appreciated learning more about the Giants but he needed to know real information he could use when he returned to the Legion in Solitude and joined up with whatever forces High King Balgruuf was preparing.

"No." The Old One said firmly. "But I can show them."

"With all due respect…" Lucius began, not wanting to anger a potential ally.

Suddenly, with a hiss and a clank of metal on metal, the Centurion behind them began to move and advance on them.

"Malacath preserve us!" Gorkur roared, rushing forward with his warhammer at the ready and Lucius drew his swords from their sheaths with a clatter of steel.

But then, in one swift movement Lucius would never have thought him capable of, the Old One leapt to his feet, his left hand contorting into a fist. He ducked the swing from the Centurion's hammer and, as it tried to bring its axe hand down, he brought his own fist around and punched its head clean from its shoulders. The Centurion stumbled back, and the Old One swung straight at its chest with his right hand, punching through its golden armour and ripping his fist back out, clutching the dynamo core that powered the infernal machine and crushed it in his hand.

As the Centurion fell against the cave wall with a metallic clank and hiss of steam, the Old One turned back to Lucius and Gorkur, who stood, open mouthed with surprise and awe. Lucius was the first to speak.

"I think your skills would be useful for our men to know…"


	7. Chapter 7- Dreams and Daedra

_"But our brethren, the Dwemer, scorned the Daedra, and mocked our foolish rituals, and preferred instead their gods of Reason and Logic."_

(Lord Vivec the Poet, False God of the Tribunal, Third Era)

It was the middle of the night before Lucius managed to stumble back to his tent in the middle of the Legion and Markarth guard camp, all but a few sentries walking around the rows of red Legion and green Reach guard tents. Argis was already fast asleep by the door as Lucius made his way inside, closing the flaps and quickly but silently removing his Dragonbone armour to reveal a set of rough but comfortable red Legion travelling clothes. Stacking his armour in the corner he took off his sword belt, and placed them by the Ebony Blade, which sat, still glowing red, in the corner of the room.

Suppressing a yawn he threw out his bedroll, thinking back to the events of the last few hours.

And, with thoughts of giants, Dwemer and Serana in his head, the Dragonborn let sleep take him.

_Lucius opened his eyes and found himself in the midst of a ball of blinding golden light, surrounded by sixteen indistinct figures of both shadow and light, many of them human shaped but others appearing to be dragons, tentacle orbs or towering giants. _

"_The Daedra… he said, knowing that this was no mere dream and tried to reach out, but felt a burning sensation as his hand touched the golden edges of his new prison and recoiled. _

_As he nursed his burnt hand one of the bright figures stepped forward, the blinding light clinging to their form slowly stripping itself away to reveal a beautiful young woman, her skin unnaturally bright, dressed in flowing purple robes, a crown of suns around her head._

"_I am Lady Azura of the Dusk and Dawn." She declared, her voice seeming to echo across the vast space beyond. "We have brought you here, mortal, to ask for your aid."_

_Lucius' expression hardened. He had had dealings with the Daedra before, had been told to betray and kill in their name but, as far as he could, had tried to stay away from their tricks and games, trusting in the Nine Divines to protect him from their wrath._

"_What do you want, Daedra?" He replied, his voice now firm and uncompromising, all trace of mirth or kindness lost. And, as he spoke, he felt ethereal flames gathering around his body, and felt a warm sensation throughout him, seeming to protect and shield him from whatever harm the Daedra would wish to do to him._

_Azura smiled, but there was anger in her eyes. "You would do well to not insult the Daedra…Dragonborn. We desire your help in destroying the Dwemer."_

"_Destroying?" Lucius said with a slight nervous laugh. "Why would I wish to destroy them? I only wish to protect Tamriel. Surely whatever they wish to do is not horrific enough to justify destroying them all? I could name many among your fellow Daedra who have done far worse…."_

_Azura frowned, and Lucius saw her form began to glow brighter, as if in anger._

"_They wish for revenge upon all creation mortal! They believe themselves greater than all life!"_

_Lucius frowned. "Why though? What could possibly have been done to them that they feel themselves above all others?"_

_Another figure stepped down from the group looking down, forming itself out of both shadows and light into a grinning pale man with horns and the legs of a goat, a large wolfhound at his feet, who spoke with a cheerful tone._

"_I can answer that one Dragonborn! Clavicus Vile, Prince of Power, at your service. I believe you helped my friend Barbas here return to Oblivion. Much obliged!" he added with another grin but Lucius didn't return the smile. Vile may have looked and sounded genial and friendly but, besides Barbas, his faithful dog and conscience, he was an amoral and deceitful creature._

"_Go on." Lucius said briskly, seeing the flames around him begin to burn brighter, showing his rising frustration._

"_Well the long and short of it is…" Vile said with a wry grin. "Our friend Azura here sought to punish the Dwemer for their little…experiment with gaining godhood."_

_Azura visibly stiffened at Vile's remarks, but the Prince of Power only smirked even more as he continued._

"_She trapped them within a prison of blinding light, an entire race, told then of their crimes and then scattered them across our realms. I had a lot of fun playing with the ones you sent me!" he said aside to Azura. "They did like to bargain and threaten with me but without their precious machine-men they ended up falling to my little deals…" he added darkly._

_At this point Azura interrupted. "They used all their foul sciences and false magic over the centuries, used the immortal lives they had while in our realms, and they rebelled. Once they united their people the foul Dwemer did make our lives most difficult. Even the horrors of all the realms of the Daedra were not sufficient to break them…"_

_As Lucius listened he felt his whole being seem to go cold in horror and fear at what the Daedra had done to the Dwemer. He felt shame and a sense of sympathy for the Dwarves, but he knew that they were still an enemy as well._

"_You imprisoned them and tortured them for centuries…no, whole Eras, and you expect me to help you finish the job!" As he said this his voice began to become louder and firmer and the ethereal flames around his body began to form into dragon-like armour of shifting blues and oranges and he noticed both Azura and Clavicus Vile look uneasy. _

_But then another figure appeared, this one a horrific grotesque parody of a man, with grey skin and a bestial appearance, his eyes deep white pools showing a merciless will to dominate all life. _

"_Molog Bal…" Lucius said in a low voice, a slight tinge of fear coursing through him, remembering Serana's stories of the Lord of Domination's power and cruelty._

"_Who are you to mock the immortal Daedra? We do not need your help, lowly servant of the Aedra. We shall crush the armies of the Dwemer ourselves and spare none. Their race is beyond any kind of redemption. And neither are you…" he said, as his hulking form slowly advanced on Lucius._

_But then Lucius stood firm and his voice was calm, but with a quiet but powerful sense of authority behind it, which seemed to shake the golden sphere of light around him, his voice growing louder and more authoritative as he spoke._

"_I am the Dragonborn. Alduin's Bane. Known as Ysmir by the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Slayer of Dremora. The Bridge between the Races of Men and the Dovah. And I will not allow you, who see yourselves as more powerful than the gods, to destroy any race of Man or Mer, no matter what they themselves may have done, and no matter what tortures and punishments you have inflicted upon them. I am the Sword of Skyrim, the Bringer of Harmony between Races and the reason that you Daedra will fail…"_

_As he said this his voice was as loud as thunder and the sphere of light was broken, shattered into nothingness. And that's when he saw them, all sixteen of the Daedric Princes, supposed gods and bringers of strife and war, genuinely look scared for the first time since the Oblivion Crisis._

_Their forms may have been horrific and grotesque, bestial and savage, or elegant and beautiful, but the Dragonborn looked them all in the eye and saw that they were indeed afraid of what he was saying-that he dared refuse their summons and orders._

_Then one of the grotesque pantheon, the monstrous form of Mehrunes Dagon, a horrific Cyclops of red and black, spoke, his voice like a thundering avalanche._

"_If you will not bow to us…Dragonborn, we shall have to condemn you to Oblivion."_

_As he said this all of the Daedra advanced and Lucius felt fear through him once again, and saw the flaming armour that had kept him safe and confident begin to fade. _

_Then he felt a great warmth descend upon him, and a voice within his mind spoke._

"_All will be well." It said simply, but Lucius knew that he was speaking to one of the Divines._

_And then the darkness beyond the Daedra was lit up in a flash of burning orange flame and the sixteen shrank back and a deafening roar of a dragon, louder and more impressive than that of Alduin himself, echoed across the void._

_Lucius turned, away from the Daedra and their lies and coercion, hearing some of them turning to flee, as an immense dragon, wreathed in flame and itself made of bright red fire began to descend towards him and Lucius felt a sense of overwhelming joy and courage flood into every fibre of his being, as the immortal form of Akatosh, chief amongst the Nine Divines, drove off the Daedra and turned his burning visage towards Lucius, who felt as powerless as an insect compared to the god before him._

"_Go, with my blessing, Dragonborn. To stand against all of the Daedra takes more courage than mortals could dream of." Akatosh said, in a voice filled with wisdom of ages past, and of the future. "Bring balance and peace to Tamriel. The Dwemer must be stopped but not by the Daedra, if the whole of creation is to be spared from destruction and chaos."_

_And then there was another blinding flash of light and Lucius felt himself slip into the real world once more._

Lucius awoke in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as he looked around the pitch black tent, almost expecting the Daedra to come back. He knew that had been no crazy dream as he saw the burn mark on his hand where he had touched Azura's golden sphere. The Daedra had spoken to him and Akatosh the God of Time had saved him from their anger and wrath.

"I need to know more…" he muttered to himself as he grabbed his armour, bundling it into a large canvas bag then throwing on his sword belt. As he went to reach for the Ebony Blade however, he found it gone, leaving only a red burn mark across the hide floor of the tent.

"So I really have angered the Daedra…" he said softly, in equal parts pride and fear. "It was a crap weapon anyway. I'm not betraying people for power…" he added as he got up, grabbing a loose piece of parchment and charcoal from a nearby kitbag and scribbling down a quick message to Legate Galliverie and Argis, saying he would meet them in Whiterun as soon as he had returned from his journey for answers.

Casting a quick Muffle spell on himself before stepping over Argis the Bulwark's still sleeping form, Lucius carefully pushed through the flaps of the tent and out into the night. His horse was already saddled and ready outside, as he had made sure before he went to sleep, just in case he needed to get out quick.

Clambering atop the horse, making sure the saddlebags either side were still filled with provisions and supplies for the journey ahead, Lucius quickly trotted out of the encampment, making sure to stay low in the saddle and away from the torchlights of the patrolling Orc and Imperial sentries and, opening the main gate with a muttered lockpicking spell he had learned from his friends in the Thieves Guild, rode out and into the night.


	8. Chapter 8- The Golden Horde

As the Dragonborn rode away from the fortress of the Giants to find answers, the armies of the Dwemer were already making their presence known on the slopes of Red Mountain for the second time since their arrival. Arrayed against them were rank after rank of elite Dunmer House Redoran troops in ornate bonemold armour, clutching ebony tipped spears and swords like their ancestors the Chimer once had on those same battlefield, against their old foe, backed up by a few formations of red armoured Imperial Legionnaires.

General Bahrma, clutching his heavy shield in one hand and an elegant spear in the other and his heavy golden armour shimmering in the growing morning sunlight, spurred his mechanical spider mount faster, eager to get to grips with the ranks of the House Redoran forces, his bodyguard, an entire division of Dwemer spider-riding cavalry, at his back, all charging onwards.

Glancing to his left and right he saw the soldiers of the Dwemer army, clad all in gold and bearing shining swords and tower shields, move into position, forming unmoving squares of solid infantry blocks. Here and there stiff moving automatons lumbered into position, Spheres and Spiders forming up to support the infantry, whilst the Centurions stood at the front of the main line, ready to charge at the general's command.

But it was the Dwemer cavalry that were his main focus. Two hundred of them, all riding low in the saddle, shields in one hand and long, thin spears with golden blades in the other, heads down as their automaton mounts spurred them onwards.

"Spearhead formation!" Bahrma bellowed, hearing his command taken up by officers throughout the cavalry, and in mere seconds the entire formation had formed into the classic V shape favoured by militaries across Tamriel for centuries. At its tip Bahrma rode, his second in command Volendun readying his lance next to him, the company standard bearer unfurling the green and golden flag of the Dwemer as they rode onward.

Up ahead the shield wall of the Dunmer's frontlines held firm, the fearless Dunmer troops rallied by priests of Azura and banner bearers shouting encouragement from their lines, their bone white shields locked together and ebony spears held out.

Taking a deep breath, his heart pounding and sweating inside his heavy armour, Bahrma gripped his spear even tighter, hearing a roar of triumph from his men behind and the answering shouts of defiance from the Dunmer front lines.

Then they met with a clash of metal and crack of bones.

The general ploughed straight though the front line, his men on either side charging in alongside him, their spears carving through the House Redoran lines, the enemies spears deflected by the scything claws of their automaton mounts.

Ramming his spear through the throat of a Dunmer, Bahrma brought his automaton thundering onwards, its mechanical legs scything down enemies on all sides, whilst his own weapon pierced bone armour and flesh alike, its tip splattered with blood as he stabbed and gored all in front of him.

Although it had been only mere seconds since they hit the Dunmer lines, the general sensed that they were already getting too far in. The first few ranks had parted like slaughtered animals but now the enemy ranks were closing in.

Spearing a heavyset Dunmer warrior thrusting a spear at him, Bahrma quickly dropped the now cumbersome weapon and drew his sword, throwing his left arm out and turning his automaton sharply. His troops instantly followed suit, many ditching their heavy spears and drawing their own swords, axes or maces, cutting down any Dunmer who came near as Bahrma led them in a sharp U-turn, through the flanks of the enemy army.

As the Dunmer lines panicked at this unexpected move, Bahrma, with Volendun following closely with his bloody mace held high, cut through their ranks and exploded out of the front formation, leaving the House Redoran front ranks dazed and quickly rushing to fill the gaps left by the Dwemer cavalry. Risking a glance back as they retreated back to the Dwemer lines, Bahrma watched with pride as the majority of his men broke free, many covered in blood and their automatons cutting a bloody swathe through the rapidly reforming Dark Elf ranks.

But already the Dunmer were in hot pursuit, their divisions at the front rushing forward in one solid line, a flight of arrows sailing towards the retreating cavalry.

"Shields!" Bahrma bellowed along with the other officers, and the clatter of the ebony arrows falling off the Dwemer's shields was all the response he needed.

And then the skies were filled with gold tipped arrows and bolts as the Dwemer archers atop the foothills of Red Mountain let fly, while the infantry quickly moved up in tight formation, heads down and shields up.

The front ranks of the Dunmer infantry formations literally disappeared as the Dwarven arrows an bolts tore through them, splintering their armour and piercing their flesh, the howls of pain and shouts for help drowned out by the bellowed orders and stamp of armoured feet as both sides moved forward.

Yet the two armies couldn't have been any different. The Dwemer ranks were solid and square, shields locked together and held both in front and on top of the warriors in the ranks, their automation units keeping the flanks secured as they rushed and stamped forward with hisses of steam and plumes of smoke. In direct contrast the Dark Elves and their Legion allies moved quickly in large shield walls, units of archers and battle mages letting off shots as they advanced, here and there command groups marked out by commanders and banner bearers on horseback, both Legion Legates and House Redoran Captains directing their troops together.

As the two armies moved towards one another, the Dwemer at a slow march and the House Redoran forces at a quick jog, General Bahrma and his command group clattered up to a rocky outcrop in the centre of the Dwemer battle lines, the slopes already covered by stout golden shield walls and lines of crossbowmen, the very top marked by Dwarven standards and a small knot of the armies main commanders.

Turning to Volendun as the cavalry began to ride off towards the flanks of the Dwemer army, Bahrma quickly said. "Take the main cavalry force and hit the Dunmer from the left flank. Our first charge disoriented them but we didn't do nearly enough damage to break them. Keep hammering at that flank while the infantry assault the centre. Engineer Nasir's automatons should be able to handle the right flanks."

Volendun saluted and galloped to the head of the cavalry whilst General Bahrma, his bodyguard of heavily armoured warriors and automatons peeling off to cover the outcrops edges as he came to the summit, the various commanders, all mounted atop their own spider mounts, saluting briskly before turning their attention to the battle at hand.

"What's the state of the enemy forces?" he asked the man to his left, Commander Vanant, the leader of the Dwemer scouting divisions, a small man made to look even smaller by his light golden armour- which made him look almost puny compared to the heavily armoured warriors on all sides.

"Their lines are strong- stronger than a lot of our men may have believed. Your cavalry charge disoriented them but they're still beating back my scout's attempts to harry their flanks. Commander Epona has been moving alongside her heavy cavalry units to drive a wedge between the Imperial and Dunmer divisions alongside the Riders of Dahaka."

Bahrma nodded. "Are they seeing any success?"

"See for yourself." The commander said, motioning with one gauntleted hand out over the plains beyond as the general removed his helmet and drew his telescope from his belt. "I believe Engineer Nasir's automaton legions are also charging the other side."

Looking out over the plain of baked earth beyond General Bahrma watched as the golden cavalry, led by the infamous Riders of Dahaka, charged the Dunmer's left flanks. Their leader, Cuolec the Red, was easily visible through Bahrma's telescope as the fearsome Dwemer warrior, clad in his distinctive red and gold armour, his cloak unfurling behind him like a crimson flag, tore towards the Dunmer lines alongside his warriors, their spider mounts and golden greatswords shining in the now bright sunlight.

With a sharp cry and clatter of steel on bronze, the cavalry hit the Dunmer lines, splintering shields and crushing Men and Mer alike as they cut through the House Redoran ranks, Cuolec at the centre of it all, his greatsword already covered in blood as he hacked and slashed at Dunmer and Imperial alike.

To the right came screams and shouts of desperation as rank after rank of Dwarven automatons, led by two dozen shining Centurions, stampeded through the Dunmer's right flanks, cutting through the lightly armoured archers and battle mages on the sides as battered groups of Dunmer warriors feebly attempted to mount a defence against them.

Bahrma heard a slight laugh from the diminutive form of Engineer Nasir, the leader of the automaton forces on the field, from behind and sighed.

"Let's not prolong this." The general said simply as he was handed a large communications lexicon cube by a sub-officer and, focusing his mind, he tapped into the telepathic link that all Dwemer shared known as 'The Calling' and ordered in a firm tone. "Send in the infantry cohorts."

Barely a few seconds had passed before, with a blast of war horns and stamping of thousands of booted feet, the golden squares of Dwemer infantry advanced, their shields easily knocking aside the volleys of Dunmer and Imperial arrows flying their way, hails of golden bolts and arrows covering their advance and cutting down the Dunmer in droves as their shield walls stood firm, ready to meet the Dwemer charge.

"They're brave at least." Commander Vanant said, removing his helmet and absently twirling his long fingers through his thick beard.

"Bravery means nothing against a superior force." Bahrma replied firmly. But he only said it to get Vanant to focus. He could see the Dunmer were a stronger force than the Imperials had ever been. Maybe some part of them remembered their ancestor's battles against the Dwemer in ages past.

As he said this the first of the infantry blocks, ten square units of them marching in perfect step, over a thousand Dwemer warriors moving as one, came close to the House Redoran lines. And when they struck, the Dunmer lines could barely resist their fury. Bahrma couldn't see what was happening even through his telescope, the movements of the two sides were so fast and confusing, but he knew exactly what his own warriors would be doing. It was the same drill that he had once been trained in, and fought with, back in Skyrim millennia ago. The rhythmic stab of the sword and push of the heavy metal shield had broken everything from Nordic berserker charges on the slopes of snowy mountains to Falmer hordes assaulting Blackreach. And it seemed to be working here, as the Dunmer lines began to break visibly, their shield walls crumbling under the repeated assault.

"Shall we commit the automatons in reserve?" asked Engineer Nasir, his eyes wide behind his hick goggles, as if relishing the chance to see his creations in combat once again.

Bahrma nodded slowly as the sounds of battle beyond began drifting up to their lofty position, the stench of blood and the distinctive oily smell of Dwarven metal brought their way by a slight breeze.

The small engineer put a hand to his temple, the other on his communications lexicon, the small cube shimmering with a pulsing red light for a second, and then the hiss and clank of automatons could be heard as the nearby regiment of automatons lumbered forward, the Centurions forming the centre of the unit, while the fast Spheres and Spiders covered the flanks.

The general felt an odd sense of fear as the automatons thundered down the low hill, groups of Dwemer archers moving up alongside them to fire into the Dunmer reserves. He respected the Engineer's machines and innovations but somehow, setting those creations upon an already desperate and battered enemy almost felt like rubbing salt in an already gaping wound.

He turned his attention back to the infantry cohorts, the second line of a thousand men in ten square 'turtle' formations moving up to support their fellows, along with thin lines of archers and crossbowmen. The infantry were, as he had expected, carving their way through the battered House Redoran forces, and, as he panned his telescope over the battlefield, he felt a slight sense of triumph at seeing the Dunmer forces break, a few groups of red uniformed Imperial troops visible retreating alongside their bone armoured comrades.

"Cuolec is demanding permission to pursue." One of the sub-officers said, his voice shaking slightly, as if the general was going to punish him for the arrogant cavalryman's words.

"Cuolec will demand nothing!" Bahrma snapped, turning his attention to the battle as a whole. Although it was only a few here and there, a unit of warriors here, a squad of battlemages or archers here, the general could see that the House Redoran army was breaking. This would soon turn into a rout.

He took a deep breath.

"Keep the infantry moving forward to secure the ground. Tell Cuolec to not pursue the retreating enemy." He added, stressing the order firmly. "Let them run. Enough blood has been spilt today. Let the Kar-Din run."

The various commanders and sub-officers around him all saluted, a few producing communications lexicons, the others shouting down to their own messengers.

As he watched the Dunmer and Imperials retreat across the baked earth plain beyond, Bahrma noticed the golden forms of the Riders of Dahaka, three hundred strong, break off from their movement back to the Dwemer lines and instead charge over the ridge, harrying the retreating House Redoran forces with arrows and the odd Dwemer soldier charging into their lines and cutting a few down with savage sword blows.

"What are they doing?" the general demanded, snapping his telescope closed, gripping the golden eyepiece in a firmer grip as his anger rose.

"I believe they are attacking the enemy baggage train and reserves." Engineer Nasir said dismissively. "A pity. I was hoping to study it to learn more about the Kar-Din's logistics."

Bahrma shook his head. "Call that arrogant fool back." He ordered. "I will not have men under my command running off on their own like that. We are not bandits or looters."

As one of the officers rushed to give the command, the general panned his gaze out over the disintegrating Dunmer army, men and Mer alike running, throwing down weapons and banners as they attempted to run. A few opportunistic Dwemer archers fired into them as they ran, but Bahrma felt a sense of approval as most of his soldiers abstained from running them down as the infantry moved in solid formations to secure the ground beyond.

Suddenly, across the plains beyond, dozens of bright purple explosions flashed out with a hum of arcane magic, deep black voids visible at the centre of them.

"What the…?" Commander Vanant said with genuine surprise, his hand going for the sword at his hip instinctively, the other officers and members of the command group looking on dumbly.

But Bahrma, getting over his initial shock, panned his telescope over the purple explosions.

"They're not disappearing." He observed, shouting out to the soldiers around him. "Those aren't explosions, they're portals!"

Engineer Nasir shook his head slowly, his eyes wide behind his goggles, this time in fear, not excitement. "Only one type of creature uses portals like that…"

"Daedra." The general stated simply, as hordes of red faced horned figures clad in black armour came pouring out of the portals, hefting evil looking swords and axes as they charged the Dwemer ranks.

000000

High Queen Anihata was sat atop the central dais in the grand but currently empty throne room near the centre of the Red Mountain stronghold, the only other figures two golden masked Guard of Kemel-Ze stood by the huge brass doors at the far end of the room, when those same doors were shoved open and a breathless messenger sprinted inside, pushing past the two Guards even as they raised their spears.

"My queen!" he shouted, his robes stained with sweat and flapping round him as he ran. The messenger sprinted down the centre of the huge room, his voice echoing around the carved stone pillars and grey walls. His footsteps slapping on the polished stone floor, he came to the base of the dais, standing on the first step and bowing low, fumbling his salute as he continued speaking, in a blatant disregard of court etiquette.

"My queen! The Daedra…they have, attacked our men in the field. Portals of purple fire!" he wheezed, completely out of breath and struggling to push the words out of his mouth as he continued. "General Bahrma is rallying his forces near the South Gate but the Dremora just keep coming from all sides."

"This came out of nowhere… Our defences aren't ready." Anihata muttered under her breath the said to the messenger. "Was there no warning? The Daedra can't just have come out of nowhere!"

The messenger looked ready to collapse from exhaustion and fear but then he spoke again. "The Tonal Architects were conducting a test of the Tonal Bridge and…it appears they may have run into some problems."

Anihata leapt from the throne, her long black hair whipping behind her as she quickly descended the stone steps, standing on the step just above the weary messenger. "Our Tonal Architects let the Daedra assault the Mountain? Do you have any other news before I go down to their chambers and personally throttle the life out of every last one of them for endangering our whole operation?" she demanded, her voice low and filled with barely contained anger.

The messenger spluttered feebly, then straightened up, saying simply. "Lord Kagrenac wishes to speak with you again."

Anihata turned away, shaking her head. "I have no time to use the Dimensional Sphere to speak with him… I'm more concerned with things happening in our plane of existence."

"With all due respect my queen…" came the reply. "Lord Kagrenac _is_ in Red Mountain right now. Despite the…setback… the Tonal Bridge is active and Kagrenac has crossed over from the realms of Oblivion."

The High Queen turned back, her eyes widening momentarily before she remembered her position and straightened up to her full height, looking down on the prostrated messenger before her. "Take me to him-now. General Bahrma can keep the Daedra's forces at bay for now on his own…"

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General Bahrma raised his shield just as the black armoured Dremora's greatsword came swinging down, the vile looking weapon slamming into the polished metal and sending a shuddering pain up Bahrma's arm and to his shoulder.

Bringing his sword up he rammed it straight into a gap in the monster's armour, twisting the golden blade as the Dremora howled in its guttural language and dropped its blade, before its entire body disintegrated into black ash. For a second Bahrma had a breathing space. On both sides his comrades battled against the onrushing Dremora, their formation and shield wall impenetrable to the enemy, their swords stabbing and thrusting into anything that came at them. Behind them rose the towering form of the South Gate, wide enough for five Centurions to walk abreast, and taller than three of them stacked on top of each other.

The Dwemer battle line was drawn up here, at the very base of Red Mountain, the slopes up above filled with automaton Ballistas and archers, flights of arrows and bolts thudding into the seemingly endless ranks of Dremora of all kinds that rushed at the Dwarven lines. The towers that studded the Mountain were filled with armoured Dwemer crossbowmen, and the slopes around them thundered with the feet of Centurions and the skittering roll of Dwarven Sphere Guardians.

But Bahrma knew they couldn't hold this position forever. The Oblivion portals were still open, spilling out legion after legion of armoured Dremora, their harsh and raucous cries echoing across the plains beyond, the screams of the last few House Redoran troops being cut down just audible over the clash of blades and thump of Daedric weapons against Dwemer armour.

Then there was no time to think as another mob of howling Dremora came rushing towards their formation, screaming and shouting in their evil tongue.

"Dagon! Dagon!" one of them, a huge Dremora with towering spiked horns and clad in armour painted in Dunmer and Dwemer blood alike, roared, holding aloft a Dwemer head streaked with blood and gore. Raising his battle-axe aloft and tossing aside the head, the towering Dremora led the charge, locking eyes with Bahrma through the Dwemer's visor and heading straight for him, not paying any heed to the arrows whizzing past him, barely flinching as two Dremora next to him were torn to pieces by a bolt from a Ballista far above.

"The fires of Oblivion take you!" the Dremora bellowed, raising its huge jagged blade, stained with blood and pieces of grey flesh.

Bahrma felt the shield wall around him stiffen and felt a slight smile come to his face. His men had his back. The Daedric forces may have been fearsome, but against the organised battle formations of the Dwemer, they had no chance of breaking them-at least not yet.

As the Dremora rushed forward into the waiting Dwemer warriors, it brought its axe down straight at Bahrma. Raising his shield, he felt the blow pressing down, almost breaking his arm with its ferocity. More Dremora ran at the Dwarven lines and around him his men were locked in their own battles as he shifted his shield, bringing his sword up.

The Dremora staggered back for a second but, as Bahrma thrust his sword forward, it gripped its axe in a firm two handed grasp and, instead of aiming for him, brought the axe blade around and hooked it over the top of the general's shield. For a second Bahrma was dumbfounded at the Dremora's unexpected move. Then he felt himself pulled forward, the shield slipping from his grasp as the Dremora used all of its unnatural strength, ripping the heavy shield from him and, with what looked like an arrogant smirk across its ugly features, casually threw it aside, a gang of charging Dremora trampling it underfoot as they rushed the Dwemer lines to the right.

"Foolish Dwemer." The Dremora said with a guttural laugh. "My master Lord Dagon will enjoy feasting upon the souls of your race soon enough."

Then, surprisingly fast for such a large creature, the Dremora rushed at him, swinging the axe behind its head, ready to cleave the general in two.

Instinctively Bahrma leapt aside, his heavy armour pressing into him painfully as he moved, but all that faded as he saw the heavy black metal axe slam into the ground where he had been seconds ago, the Dremora snarling at him as it moved to pull its weapon free of the baked earth and red sands.

Without a second thought, Bahrma swung his sword and sliced at the long handle of the axe, the advanced Dwarven metal blade cutting the Oblivion forged steel in two ,leaving the Dremora, its black eyes widening, with nothing but a useless metal stick as a weapon.

Smiling at his small victory, Bahrma ran at the Dremora, ramming his blade straight into the creature's chest, the black armour crumpling around the Dwarven metal and the sword punching through the creature's red flesh with a wet smack, black blood exploding out of the Dremora's back as Bahrma pushed the sword in up to the hilt and the tip pushed out the other side, covered in gore and more black ooze.

The general gritted his teeth as he looked up at the Dremora, but the huge warrior barely seemed to noticed the sword through it's chest as it drew back one of its black gauntleted hands and punched Bahrma in the chest, staggering him. He fell back, losing his grip on the sword, which was still lodged in the Dremora as it walked slowly toward him, a grating laugh on its lips. He looked left and right for some kind of aid, but found none. On all sides the battle was raging even fiercer, the Dremora still rushing the Dwemer lines in waves, their armoured boots crunching through the piled up black ash of their comrades, the hail of bolts and arrows from above still falling while the air was filled with battle cries, the clash of swords and distant clanking of automatons thundering into battle.

Straightening up, Bahrma raised his fists. If he was going to die- he was going to go down fighting. The Dremora lurched forward, swinging one mailed fist at him, which he barely dodged before, with a cry, the Dwemer general rushed at his foe, tackling him straight in the chest, wrapping his arms around the monster's waits and bearing it down to the ground.

As the two combatants hit the hard ground with a loud thump and clatter of armour, Bahrma raised his fist, bringing it down on the Dremora's blood red face, knocking its head back and causing a small splatter of black blood to splash onto his golden gauntlets. The Dremora seemed not to care as Bahrma threw blow after blow, contorting the creature's face and pummelling it mercilessly, his fist soon covered in blood and his arms feeling like lead.

With a harsh laugh, the Dremora head-butted him, and Bahrma felt the blow even through his thick helmet, and he stumbled back, the sounds of battle around him disorienting him almost as much as the ringing in his ears.

Then he felt a punch take him in the chest, crumpling his golden breastplate as if it was paper, the Dremora drawing back its fist for another strike, for a second staggering as a stray arrow caught it in the shoulder but, like the sword still sticking out of its chest and the black blood streaming out from the open wound, the monster didn't seem to feel it.

The Dremora paused, its black eyes staring at Bahrma for a second, as the Dwarven general stood ,unarmed and helpless, barely metres away from his men, but completely alone.

Then it charged.

Ducking its huge fist, Bahrma punched it in its side, then, as it staggered momentarily, drove his fist into the Dremora's back. The huge creature of Oblivion laughed again, but stopped as Bahrma brought his left foot, clad in glittering Dwemer plate and golden mail, up and, as the Dremora turned to face him, brought it down on the back of the creature's leg.

The Dremora grunted in pain and tried to get around to grab the Dwemer as Bahrma skirted around to the other side and punched it in the back of the neck, sending the towering creature to its knees.

"The fires of Oblivion take you." Bahrma shouted and drew his dagger from his belt and, pulling back the stunned Dremora's head back by its flowing black hair, slit its throat in one slash, burying his dagger in its neck and kicking it down, the creature gargling on its own blood for a second before falling to the ground, collapsing into a pile of ash. Bahrma retrieved his sword from the monster's remains just as another Dremora, this one hefting a spiked mace and thick black iron shield, came charging towards him.

Breathing heavily, every part of his body dripping with sweat and feeling stiff and weak, the general turned to face the Dremora.

Suddenly the sky was lit up in bursts of a clear bright blue, a stark contrast to the brown and red clouds overhead, and the Dremora paused, turning its head to look behind it.

Then a flight of arrows took the Dremora in the back of the chest, the bronze tipped shafts slamming into the demonic soldier's back and forcing him to the ground before he quickly expired into a pool of ashes. Bahrma looked around disoriented, and saw out of the corner of his eye many of the warriors around him, Dwemer and Dremora alike, looked around dumbly, stopping their fighting momentarily as a blast of war horns and hiss of steam automatons heralded the arrival of a host of cavalry, led by Cuolec the Red himself, stringing another arrow to his towering golden bow as he and his fellows rode down the Dremora where they stood.

And, riding alongside him on a glimmering golden spider automaton, his flowing purple robes and ornate armour lit up in the glow of the communications lexicon in one hand and gripping a glittering golden sword in the other, was Lord Kagrenac himself. The elderly Dwemer let out a loud battle cry as he cut through the Dremora and, behind the cheering forms of the Riders of Dahaka that accompanied him, Bahrma could see rank after rank of Dwemer infantry, all marching forwards, shields locked together, finishing off the few Dremora who had survived the cavalry's devastating charge.

The general removed his helmet and looked into the distance where the Oblivion portals were now being surrounded by lines of armoured Dwemer warriors, and he watched with fascination as groups of purple robed Tonal Architects set up large golden pylons, which, in a flash of blinding blue light, deactivated the portals one by one.

The last of the Dremora were being hacked down by the victorious Dwemer as Bahrma retrieved his weapons, his unit forming up around him in stiff formation as Lord Kagrenac, his blade bloody and with Cuolec and a host of armoured banner bearers atop spider mounts at his side, halted next to the general.

"General Bahrma!" the Chief Tonal Architect called out, reining in his mount as he sheathed his blade. "It appears we arrived exactly when you needed us."

The general frowned. All around them lay piles of ash and dead Dwemer warriors, their golden armour giving them the appearance of toppled statues.

"What took you so long?" he said, not caring that Kagrenac was the proclaimed 'saviour' of their race. He was the same rank as the old Dwemer in technical terms. They both answered directly to the Council of Masters-the body above the Four Councils- and he wasn't going to be thanking him for anything. "I've lost a lot of good men I can't replace because of your Tonal Architects letting Daedra rampage across our new home." He added, his voice low but still filled with menace and anger.

But Lord Kagrenac only smiled, his crooked teeth and distant looking eyes making the gesture look somehow hollow. "Oh but there you are wrong General. The Tonal Bridge is active and I have just brought with me over thirty thousand of our finest troops to reinforce your men. You will also be happy to know that a large amount of essential personnel are also en route through the Bridge. Including your dear wife and children." He added with another forced looking smile.

The general resisted the urge to smile. He was glad his family was here, but that happiness was overshadowed by the fact that he knew Kagrenac had only allowed his family through was because his wife, Inanna, was one of the finest Tonal Architects from the Skyrim city states and the former Master of the Tower of Mzark.

He felt a slight sense of relief as a messenger came clattering up behind them, reining in his spider mount and saying in a polite tone. "General Bahrma! The Council of Warriors requests your presence in the War Quarter immediately."

As he turned to go Bahrma heard Cuolec the Red laughing and turned to see the burly cavalryman remove his helmet to reveal his short black beard, bedecked with glittering rubies, and his large face, which was dominated by the ugly red claw mark scar that ran across the entirety of it and which gave the formidable warrior his name. It had been inflicted by the so-called 'King of Werewolves' Romulus Fenrir himself, during the battles of Hircine's Hunting Grounds. Bahrma ignored him. Cuolec was one of the greatest Dwemer warriors alive, but he had an ego to match. So when the messenger spoke again, Bahrma felt a slight smile cross his battle weary features.

"Commander Cuolec." The man said, himself almost unable to keep a straight face. "The Council has requested your presence as well."

Bahrma laughed for the first time in days as he walked away, the cavalry commander's indignant cries of frustration echoing across the battlefield.


	9. Chapter 9- Age of Aggression

It took the general another hour to reach the War Quarter. He was not used to the sprawling tunnels of Red Mountain. The city states of Skyrim had been small and compact, here the fortress seemed to stretch on forever. Even the majesty of Blackreach seemed to be little compared to the greatest city of the Dwemer.

The gates of the War Quarter loomed in the tunnel up ahead, a towering construction of bronze and stone, marked by the plain red banners of the Council of Warriors and guarded by a group of ten warriors with armour and shields bearing red crests.

The soldiers quickly straightened up as Bahrma and his escort, a company of five Dwemer warriors, all still covered in black Dremora blood and their armour and weapons battered and worn, came closer, the captain of the guards quickly stepping aside.

"The Council are just down the corridor sir." The captain added as Bahrma walked past. "A stunning victory over the Kar-Din and the Daedra." he added with a large amount of respect obvious in his voice. "You truly are the best commander we have."

Bahrma turned back and gave the captain a smile. "I wouldn't say that." He replied modestly. "I'm only a strategist. Cuolec the Red is a true warrior."

The captain shrugged. "The rumour at the moment is you were fighting Dremora bare handed while Cuolec was looting the Kar-Din's baggage train. Me and the men know exactly who the real hero there is."

Bahrma grinned as he approached the huge golden doors to the council chambers, but that smile died as he saw Cuolec standing by those same doors, a small group of armoured Riders of Dahaka swathed in dark brown cloaks standing by him.

"Leave us." Bahrma said firmly, at both his own men and the soldiers accompanying Cuolec.

The two groups did so, his own men instantly, while the cavalrymen took a second before marching loudly away. Cuolec turned to Bahrma once the others had left.

"Let's see what these tired old men want, General." He said with a slight grin as the two men opened the doors and stepped inside.

The chamber that the Council of Warriors sat in was, like most Dwemer constructions, perfectly square, the ten members of the council all sat around the square stone table at the centre. The council, made up of some of the finest old warriors and commanders in their entire race, bowed slightly as Bahrma and Cuolec approached, their sets of ornate armour, elaborate cloaks and flowing grey hair and, in the case of the male members, elegantly curled beards, gave off an air of wisdom and centuries of experience.

"General Bahrma." Said one of the council members, a tall Dwemer man garbed in red robes and ceremonial scaled armour. "We are glad to hear of your victory over the unexpected Daedra attack. We were crossing the Tonal Bridges as the first reports of Dremora came in. It is troubling to see Mehrunes Dagon sending his forces against us using our own technologies. Now we must turn to the matter at hand. Did you have any problems to bring before us before we carry on?"

The general nodded, giving an aside look at Cuolec. "Yes. Although I am grateful to him for his role in driving off the Dremora horde, I would like to bring this council's attention to the fact that Commander Cuolec disobeyed orders and, instead of pulling his cavalry back, overran the enemy lines and attacked their baggage train- no doubt in search of loot. This is after I had sent out orders calling for all divisions to return to base. Perhaps if the commander had followed orders the Dremora would have been broken before Lord Kagrenac's arrival."

The council members began nodding until Cuolec shook his head, a genial smile crossing his scarred features.

"I'm sorry council members- I truly am. But can we just remind ourselves of a simple fact that our dear general may have missed? He told us to retreat. Just as our forces were poised to wipe out the Kar-Din hordes. Now the few that escaped the Dremora will be stumbling back to their fellows and preparing another attack as we speak! You see, in Clan Rourken at least, we know how to deal with our enemies-swiftly and mercilessly. Need I remind you of the Battle of the Al'ikr, the Day of Red Sands, the years when we aided our cousins from Skyrim in the War of the Crag? The Rourken Clan embody every one of the elements of a true warrior, and sometimes, yes, we get a bit ahead of ourselves. But I was not, as some have suggested, merely attacking the enemy baggage train. I was chasing down the remnants of one of our oldest foes, whose ancestors attempted to stop our expansion across all of Tamriel! Now I am a warrior at heart but, unfortunately, it appears our general is not…"

Bahrma's eyes widened at Cuolec's words, and he saw many of the council members frown at the commander's audacity, but they let him continue regardless.

"You see, he is an excellent strategist and general, yes, but he does not understand the true fire and passion that all warriors possess. He is a native of Skyrim. Those warring city states preferred to hide in their mountain strongholds and let the Nords and Snow Elves run rampant on the surface. We of Clan Rourken do not. Speak to the natives of Hammerfell that we took prisoner in our last battle. Is it any wonder that the demons of their myths and legends are golden armoured warriors? Long story short, honourable council members, I…"

"Enough!" the council cried out in unison, frowns and grimaces plastered across their aged faces as one of them, an elegant Dwemer woman garbed in a loose red cloak with a brooch of pure Aetherium, stood up, her voice echoing across the chamber as she spoke.

"Remember your place Commander Cuolec! I am also of Clan Rourken and yes, the fires of war pulse through my blood as well, but I do not use it as an excuse for poor judgement. You will obey your commander's orders to the letter, or be stripped of your rank. Understand? Now, can we get to the real reason for this meeting?"

Cuolec bowed stiffly, but Bahrma could see the commander's look of rage, which was quickly gone as soon as he straightened up again and the councilwoman spoke again.

"Now firstly, since you appear to have some need of letting out your 'warrior urges' Commander Cuolec, we have a task for someone of your talents. For a few days our scouts have been tracking a small group of remnants from the Imperial army we destroyed when our forces first came to Tamriel. They are led by a veteran, General Tullius, as our prisoners call him. But there are also others leading the force of two hundred or so Legion troops. A Breton warrior who leads the Imperial's spy and saboteur divisions, the so called 'Blades' and a Nord woman, supposedly outfitted in armour made of dragon bones, and bearing the fabled Spellbreaker shield of Clan Rourken. We need you to take your men, and an additional two thousand cavalry from those reinforcements that crossed over the Tonal Bridges, and ride after them."

Cuolec nodded, but there was a look of confusion on his face. "You want over two thousand of the finest cavalry in Tamriel to chase down a few refugees?"

The councilwoman nodded briskly. "The refugees are a priority because of the Spellbreaker this Nord in Dragonbone armour bears. The Tonal Architects have pored over much of this world's writings on the Daedra and found that the Spellbreaker is now an artefact of the Daedric Prince Peryite. The High Queen wishes to possess it. Of course, someone of your…talents…is not some errand boy. Send a detachment of your men after the refugees yes, but your orders are more suited to you and your Riders."

Bahrma saw a smile cross Cuolec's face, and he knew that whatever was said next could not be good.

"We want you to set the island of Vvardenfell ablaze."

It was at this point that the scarred Dwemer soldier laughed, a sharp and harsh bark like that of a wolf cornering its prey, and he continued grinning from ear to ear as the councilwoman continued.

"We want every bit of farmland put to the torch, every scrap of resistance wiped out, every civilian sent back to Red Mountain in chains."

It was at this point that the general had heard enough. "I'm sorry honourable councilmembers but I must protest…"

The councilwoman waved an arm dismissively. "Your protest has been noted general, and denied. We need to draw out the Dunmer and Imperial forces still on the island of Vvardenfell. On the open field they are little more than an annoyance. Cowering behind their walls and in their fortresses, we can pick them off one by one. But if they were to unite, that's when we would have a problem. And nothing is more guaranteed to stop them uniting than forcing them to act as soon as possible with no time to prepare. Make the arrangements." She added, and Cuolec bowed and left the room, his laughs echoing outside as the doors were slammed shut.

"I am sorry general." The councilwoman said, but there was little regret in her eyes. "But if we want a quick victory we have to force their hand. Surely you don't want your men to die in vain?"

Bahrma gritted his teeth, but forced himself to look the council members in the eye. "What is it you wish me to do while Cuolec rampages across the countryside?"

Another council member spoke now, a broad chested but elderly warrior, his face marked by old battle scars.

"Now that the Tonal Bridge is built and we can freely move troops and supplies into Red Mountain from the Daedric realms, the High Queen has ordered us to ready our forces for a full invasion of all of Tamriel. There are other plans in place for our people of course. This war is not entirely one of conquest." He added darkly. "But until we have readied our armies, we may be prey to more attacks, either by the Daedra or the inhabitants of Tamriel. To that end we need you to oversee the construction of a new ring of fortresses and watchtowers around the base of Red Mountain."

"You brought me here to do the work of an Engineer?" Bahrma asked in a low tone. He was not one who took having his time wasted lightly.

"As we said to Commander Cuolec." The councilman replied evenly. "Remember your place. You may report to the Council of Masters but we still have command over you. The High Queen herself requested that you oversee this work. She trusts you above all others with the defence of Red Mountain."

The general grudgingly bowed.

"See to it General." The council said in unison as Bahrma stepped out of the room, and the doors closed shut with a metallic slam.

000000

Night was falling over Red Mountain as the general staggered back to his chambers, exhausted. The entire day he had been overseeing the building of the new defences, riding all around the base of the mountain and watching as the Dwemer Engineers constructed walls and towers atop the rocky bluffs and sandy plains. Now he was eager to actually get some rest. He had removed his armour already and was now dressed in a flowing red robe, his bare feet slapping on the smooth stone floor.

The guard at the door to his chambers saluted as he approached and Bahrma returned the gesture wearily, pushing open the golden doors and stepping into his spacious, well-furnished chambers. Instantly he felt two small figures grab hold of his legs, hugging them tightly, and he smiled as he looked down upon his children.

His son Mithra, a small but energetic young boy, and his daughter Peris, his older sister, inheritor of her mother's beauty, clung to him tightly as Bahrma laughed, overdramatically dragging his legs as he walked across the room, his children letting go as they reached the doorway to the main dining room. From a corner scuttled their faithful pet Saluki, an elegant golden Spider automaton the two children had built themselves, under their mother's careful teaching, rubbing its cold metal form against Bahrma's leg, and he patted the small spider absently. He was surprised how lifelike it was, even though its body was metal and its heart a simple dynamo core.

"We heard about the battle, father!" Mithra declared loudly as Saluki scampered around the boy. "Captain Rashnu said that you killed a Dremora with your bare hands!"

Bahrma grinned. "You shouldn't believe everything that old man tells you. It was actually two…" he added with a sly wink and Mithra frowned.

"As if!" he declared loudly and Bahrma was glad to see a smile cross Peris' features. Unlike her brother, who had remained cheery and optimistic for the entirety of their imprisonment by the Daedra, Peris had been hugely affected by the horrors of the Daedra. She hadn't spoken to anyone since the nightmares that had plagued all the Dwemer in Vaermina's Land Without Rest. Bahrma hoped that she would open up now that they were safe from those evil beings.

"How are you finding your new home then?" Bahrma asked, squatting down so he was on the same level as Peris and Mithra.

"Amazing!" Mithra declared happily. "Captain Rashnu took us on a tour of it this afternoon. It's so much bigger than our old house back in Alftand. Warmer too…" he added with a grin.

"Well I was only a regular soldier back then. Now I'm a general there are certain…perks."

"At least there's none of those freaky Falmer here."

Bahrma laughed but inside he still felt the same guilt from years back. In Alftand, before the betrayal of the Snow Elves, he had had many friends amongst the refugee Falmer. Seeing them reduced to crazed savages in days ,and hearing from the Nord captives of the legends of the pale men who stole people away in the night, was still a dark spot upon his soul-even if his fellows didn't share that guilt.

"No." he agreed, smiling weakly. "Now, it's late and you must have plenty more exploring to do in the morning. Peris, get you and your brother ready for bed." He added, looking over at his daughter, who nervously twirled the hem of her small white robe around her fingers, but nodded slowly and led Mithra away.

As his children disappeared into their room, closing the bronze door behind them, Bahrma gave Saluki one last affectionate pat before it scuttled into the corner and powered down.

Alone at last, he was just making his way to his bedroom door when he heard a familiar voice say from behind him.

"Aren't you forgetting someone?"

He was about to turn when he felt a warm set of hands touching his shoulders, and instantly recognised the soft touch of his wife, Inanna. He felt her short curled black hair on his back, and she kissed him lightly on the nape of the neck before he turned to face her.

Inanna had to look up to see into Bahrma's eyes. He had always joked she was the reason that the Giant's had called their race 'Dwarves' all those Eras ago, but her slight frame and pretty face did little to disguise her intelligence and ingenuity. Currently she was still dressed in the banded gold armour and purple robes of a Tonal Architect but, as she led him by the hand to their bedroom, she was undoing the delicate clasps on her amour, letting it fall to the floor as they sat on the end of the bed.

"I heard about the Dremora." She said in a low voice, a deep sense of sympathy behind her words. "I'm...I'm sorry if my colleagues had any part in it."

Bahrma shrugged. "It was nothing but a problem with the calculations I bet. Lord Kagrenac may be arrogant and rude, but he knows exactly what he is doing. I would face down all the monsters of Oblivion if it meant getting you and the children safely out of that hellish place."

Inanna smiled. "We're here now though. And it has been a long day I can tell you! First there was the problem with the Tonal Bridges, then it turned out our coordinates for the Convector Spheres was off. By the time we had recalibrated those…" she said as she removed the golden headpiece from her hair, allowing her hair to billow out over her shoulders freely. "We had to completely reboot the whole of our backup Tonal Resonation systems and… you don't understand a word I'm saying do you?"

Bahrma shrugged noncommittally. "I'm a warrior, not a Tonal Architect."

Inanna frowned in mock annoyance. "If only you weren't as dim as a drunken Chimer…sorry, Dunmer." She corrected herself. "This new world is so strange."

"At least there's no Daedra here." Bahrma said with a grin as his wife began removing her robe, letting the purple material pool across the stone floor as the two of them lay on the bed by each other.

Lying there across from his wife, who was clad in nothing but her prized Aetherium necklace, Bahrma let himself finally relax for the first time in days, letting out a deep sigh as he quickly pulled off his own robe and threw it off the bed. As he did so a small spider automaton scuttled out from a vent across the room, ignoring the naked couple embracing on the bed and stacking the clothes in a small pile on a nearby table before leaping back into the hatch.

"Classy place we have here." Inanna said with a smile as she pressed into Bahrma's broad chest, then flinched as she saw the patchwork of red bruises and small cuts across his body.

"What have those ~Daedric monsters done to you? Do I need to get the healing potions from the other room?"

The general sighed before saying. "It's nothing. I guess I just need to sleep it off."

His wife nodded. "A shame. I was looking forward to having a little 'reunion'. But you need to sleep."

Raising her hands she clapped twice and the lights in the room dimmed, the two Dwemer nestling together, Bahrma pulling the blanket over them as he kept an arm around Inanna's slight form, and he drifted off to sleep.

_Bahrma opened his eyes and found himself inside a huge cave, lit by countless green Dwemer 'Infinite candles' and blue bioluminescent mushrooms._

"_Blackreach." He said softly, knowing at once that he was dreaming. It felt like forever since he had last looked out on this place._

_He stood up from the rocky ground, dislodging a small avalanche of pebbles as he went and began climbing a small hill. Why, he didn't know, but something at the back of his mind told him to._

_When he looked out over the city of Blackreach beyond, he felt a stab of fear course through him like poison. _

_Beyond him the city of Blackreach, one of the greatest cities of the Dwemer, was a crumbling ruin. The once elegant sprawl of square houses and domed towers was now covered in crumbling rock falls and the ugly purple forms of what could only be Falmer dens. The city's high walls and strong towers, once impenetrable to countless hordes of crazed Falmer, were now falling to pieces, while the huge artificial sun that had once lit the whole cavern at the very centre lay cracked and broken on its side._

_As he looked out, he became aware of two figures standing behind him and he turned, putting his hand to where his sword belt would be, but then finding he was dressed in the ragged robes of a prisoner, heavy chains and manacles on his hands and feet._

_The two figures stared at him, metres away and, as he looked closer, he recognised one of them._

_It was High Queen Anihata. Her armour was battered and there were countless small cuts and wounds across her pale skin and her hair was in disarray, but she stood before him still, a glittering golden sword with what looked like a miniature sun in the pommel in one hand, a strange white shield that crackled with arcane energy and looked vaguely familiar to Bahrma, in the other. She held out her hand to him, dropping the strange golden sword, her expression one of pain._

_The other figure however was a direct contrast. Clad in thick armour that could only be made out of Dragonbones, the figure wielded a black bladed curved sword in one hand, his face obscured by a towering horned helmet. And, just like the apparition of the High Queen before him, this strange figure held out his hand to him._

"_What do you want from me?" Bahrma demanded of the two figures, trying to reach for them both, but finding his hands would only let him go in one direction. He would have to choose._

_Then the scene melted away and he was falling through a black void, the guttural laughter of Dremora echoing in his ears._


	10. Chapter 10- The Dragon and the Sun

A blizzard was raging across the far west of Skyrim as the Dragonborn rode hard across Haafingar Hold, the breeze whipping across the forest trail as he rode on, trusting in the light of his torch and the sure movement of the strong draft horse he rode in the almost pitch black night.

It had taken him two days to reach this far, staying the night in Rorikstead and Dragon Bridge. He didn't want to ride the horse too hard. These mountains were usually crawling with bandits, crazed Skooma dealers and worse. Were his horse to break its leg and leave him stranded out here, he didn't know which might get him first- a bandit's arrow in the back or the cold.

Lucius hugged his thick wool fur cloak around him. His Dragonbone armour was currently packed safely away in his saddlebags along with the rest of his supplies, replaced by a cheap but effective set of leather armour he had bought from a Khajiit caravan stopping over in Rorikstead on the way to Whiterun. Even in the much lighter armour, Lucius still felt uncomfortable and tired. He would have rather not worn any armour, but preferred a bit of discomfort to being killed by a lucky sword stroke.

His horse neighed uneasily as they passed under the dark tree canopy of two ancient pines leaning across the trail at crazy angles, their branches as sharp as spear tips.

"Easy boy…easy." Lucius said, patting the tired horse's head absently, the other hand keeping a firm hand on the reins. Despite his calm words, Lucius kept his hand near to the sheathed curved form of Dragonbane as he led his horse further into the forest, gripping his legs slightly tighter into the saddle as they began to head downhill.

And, as the forest began to clear away and the path spiralled in a bending line down the sheer cliff face beyond, Lucius looked out over the night sky beyond.

The twin moons, Masser and Secunda, were higher in the sky than a few nights ago, whilst the stars, said by scholars to be holes created in the fabric of reality by the Divines before time began, twinkled and shone brightly down upon the slow moving waves of the Sea of Ghosts below, deceptively calm considering its fearsome reputation.

The shifting lights of the aurora, a vast tapestry of deep blues, greens and purples, stretching endlessly across the sky above, shone down as Lucius took his horse down the path at a slow trot, breathing in the sea air and enjoying the light breeze across his clean shaven features.

And, just in the distance, its form crowned by dozens of burning torches and magical orbs of light, was the former fortress of a now dead vampire clan which had, before its occupation by the minions of Molog Bal, been the last redoubt of the dying race of Snow Elves. Millennia ago it had been the greatest stronghold of that now corrupted race but centuries of occupation by the vampires had stained its reputation irreparably.

Castle Volkhair.

As he reached the small jetty Lucius tied up his horse by its broken pillars, muttering a spell under his breath and casting it by the weary animal, a large spectral dog forming out of the purple smoke that issued from his hand. The familiar barked faithfully as Lucius walked away. It would be enough to protect his mount from the wolves and trolls that infested this desolate coastline for a while, and Lucius wasn't planning on staying long.

He was here for answers.

As he looked out across the narrow but deep stretch of water beyond, he could just see shadowy figures moving amongst the battlements atop the castle's main gatehouse, the two huge towers beyond, both newly repaired, standing like silent sentinels in the night. And, in the far distance, the mountains of the Breton province of High Rock were just visible on the horizon. Looking out at the borders of that strange realm of mountaintop castles and political backstabbing, Lucius felt a smile come to his face.

"Another time maybe…"

Taking one last look out at the sea beyond, judging the distance, Lucius called upon his innate knowledge of the Dragon tongue once more.

"Wuld-Nah-Kest!" he shouted, and felt his body seem to be propelled forth by the sound of his voice, carrying him safely across the water in a heartbeat and depositing him safely on the hard shingle beach beyond.

Looking up at the crumbling watchtower next to him, Lucius saw it was empty and kept walking, his feet, clad in sturdy leather riding boots, crunching on the shingle and gravel before he stepped onto the cobblestone surface of the large bridge leading up to the castle's huge square gatehouse.

His cloak whipping around him as a cold wind blew across the bridge, Lucius took a minute to look at the six elegant stone statues that had replaced the gargoyles that the Volkhair Clan had placed there. Each of them depicted the same figure, a vaguely elven man dressed in flowing robes and holding aloft an orb of glowing Magelight in his hands.

Lucius recognised the figure as the god Auri-El instantly, the Elven variant on the Divine Akatosh.

"Seems the new tenants have been busy." He muttered to himself as he crossed the bridge, one hand holding aloft a lit torch and the other inside his cloak resting on the hilt of Dragonbane.

As he came to the middle of the bridge, the thick wooden portcullis and banded iron gates shut in front of him, he heard a voice calling out.

"By the grace of Auri-El, stop traveller!"

From above Lucius heard the dull twang of readied bow strings, and looked up to the battlements above the gatehouse to see a dozen pale figures in elegant light armour the colour of snow aiming slender bows down at him, their arrows glowing white hot at the tips. Looking behind him he saw a group of similarly pale archers standing atop the watchtower by the water's edge, blocking off his escape.

Another man might have thought himself fighting ghosts from the past, but Lucius knew better. Ever since a letter written in the almost indecipherable Falmer tongue had reached his home, pressed into his hands by a stranger who refused to show their face, but whose hands were the colour of snow, Lucius had known exactly who these new tenants of Castle Volkhair were.

"Snow Elves." He said in a low voice, and the Elves must have heard him, for the archers leaned further out, all lining up their bows on Lucius' head.

"Who are you?" A voice called out, its tone commanding and disdainful. "Who are you to come near our last stronghold, the Fortress of Auri-El?"

Lucius sighed. 'It's Dragonborn time.' He thought with a wry grin as he looked up at the figures on the battlements overhead.

Without another thought, he opened his mouth, feeling the ancient words forming on his lips as he shouted out.

"Fo-Krah-Diin!" he shouted, and a blast of glittering ice flew out, slamming into the thick stones just underneath the battlements the Snow Elves cowered behind.

"I am the Last Dragonborn." He declared as the Snow Elves stared down. "The Son of Akatosh, who you know as Auri-El ,and I wish to speak with Knight-Paladin Gelebor of the Chantry of Auri-El."

For a few seconds there was near silence, except for quiet whispering amongst the Elves on the battlements, and the slam of a door and rapidly diminishing smack of booted feet on stone steps.

Lucius looked up at the snow covered form of Castle Volkhair, or rather, the Fortress of Auri-El, as its new owners were calling it. When he had received the letter from Gelebor about a year ago he had thought little of it, even when the ancient Elf had claimed that he had received word from other scattered Snow Elf tribes throughout Tamriel, who had all heard of a man using the power of Auriel's Bow to make the sun burn even brighter, and was said to have used it to pierce the heart of an ancient vampire and wipe him from existence. Lucius had known instantly that was him, even though he had only carried the bow for a month or so before returning it to the Chantry and Gelebor.

As he thought about his previous disbelief mere months ago at there being any more Snow Elves, the portcullis clattered up and the main gate was pushed open. From the castle emerged a group of ten Snow Elf warriors in the same white Ancient Falmer armour the archers wore, bearing shields with the sun symbol of Auri –El emblazoned across, and tall spears with tips that looked to be crafted out of pure ice.

The warriors drew up a few metres from Lucius, forming a shield wall, their spears not lowered, but still their gauntleted hands clutched the shafts, ready to run the Dragonborn through at a moment's notice. Then the wall parted slightly to allow one elegant figure to step forward. The Snow Elf was a stark contrast to his warriors, his armour polished and obviously very well kept, covered in ancient Falmer runes and symbols, a cloak of purest white around his shoulders and a crown of silver atop his long white hair. At his hip was belted a thin sword in an ornate sheath and in his hand was a spear, which he levelled at the Dragonborn with a frown crossing his pale features. It looked to Lucius as if the Snow Prince of ancient times, the last hero of that doomed race, had come down to Mundus once more.

"So you are the Dragonborn, son of Akatosh?" he asked, his voice commanding and yet filled with a slight sense of fear. "The being with the body of a man but the soul of a dragon? Son of the god of both time and the sun above?"

Lucius nodded solemnly. "I am the Last Dragonborn, yes. And I have come to speak to Gelebor on urgent business."

The Snow Elf lowered his spear, but still kept his hand firmly gripped on it. "I am Prince Mirtil, last of his line, direct descendant of the Snow Prince himself. You are only welcome in our halls because I allow it…Dragonborn." He said coldly, and Lucius heard his title being said for the first time with venom and hate. Even Alduin had respected him. This man here saw him as little more than a potential enemy.

Without another word the prince turned, beckoning to the warriors beside him, who quickly collapsed their shield wall and, forming up around Lucius as the prince walked ahead, escorted him through the gates of the Fortress of Auri-El; the doors slamming shut behind them as they stepped inside.

As Lucius came into the brightly lit halls beyond, for a second he was struck with a strange sense of familiarity. The long corridor was filled with the same elegant stone furniture and bright Magelights that had adorned the Chantry of Auri El, the doors to the Great Hall up ahead flanked by two Snow Elf warriors, who bowed low as the prince passed, while giving looks of both fear and mistrust at Lucius.

When they stepped into the Great Hall itself, Lucius couldn't believe how much it had changed. Last time had been here he had been storming the ancient fortress alongside the full might of the Dawnguard, and had had to wade through puddles of blood and past piles of corpses drained of blood. Now all that was gone, and the Great Hall was filled with the sounds of Snow Elves, laughing and talking amongst themselves and small groups of Elven children, which Lucius had almost never seen even amongst the more prolific Elven races, could be heard running amongst the adults. But as Lucius and his escort came out onto the balcony that looked over it all, every eye in the room was on him, and the conversations were now spoken in hushed tones as the Imperial looked out over the room.

Ignoring the suspicious stares, Lucius marvelled at how different the room was, now filled with more of the delicate stone furniture he had seen before, the centre of the polished stone floor dominated by a sun symbol created with countless glimmering white gems.

"It's a good thing the Thieves Guild don't know about this place…" he said with a slight smile, before he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Prince Mirtil, who frowned and said simply.

"Gelebor is in the cathedral, outsider. Go see him, find out what you know, then leave."

Shrugging as the Snow Elf walked away, Lucius pulled his cloak around him and descended the steps, walking the same path he had taken with Serana a year ago to the castle's large cathedral, but this time for very different reasons. With the eyes of every Snow Elf in the room on him, Lucius left, heading down the winding corridors, now marked with white and gold banners instead of bloodstains, and entered the cathedral through the main door.

000000

As he entered the towering room, the Dragonborn felt momentarily the same pang of fear he had when confronting Serana's father. The new tenants may have taken away the coffins and cleansed the room of its vile owner's taint, but he could still just smell the same stench of blood and death that had once hung over this place.

Stepping onto the cold marble floor, he walked down the rows of new carved stone seats that sat either side, and looked up at the main altar, which was surrounded by a trickling fountain of crystal clear water. Where once a font of blood and statue of Molog Bal had stood, now there was a glittering statue of gold and gleaming diamonds, forming the benevolent form of Auri El, a small miniature sun created through magic that was beyond Lucius, in one golden hand and in the other, the white form of Auri-El's Bow. Kneeling at the foot of the statue was the familiar form of Knight-Paladin Gelebor, easy to spot due to his shock of bright white hair, and he turned as Lucius approached.

"It is good to see you once more Dragonborn." He said with a smile as Lucius approached, standing up, and showing off his ornate Ancient Falmer armour, a sword that looked to be made of pure ice at his hip. "I believe you have met the rest of the castle inhabitants."

"Met them and been shunned by them in the space of five minutes." Lucius replied simply, and Gelebor shook his head.

"Don't judge them too harshly. Prince Mirtil's family wandered Tamriel for centuries disguised as Dark Elves. They used magic and ash to blend in while living in Morrowind, but when they tried to return to Skyrim they were hunted down by Nord soldiers. He had to watch almost all of his family die or be captured by Nord hunting parties."

"How did they survive so long then?"

Gelebor sighed. "Most of the Snow Elves living here now came from holdouts in old Ayelid or Nordic ruins. An unlucky few, like Prince Mirtil, were forced to live in the ruins of the ancient Dwemer cities."

Lucius' eyes widened at the Snow Elf's words. "You mean that he and his family…?"

Gelebor shook his head sadly. "His family were all dead by then. Many died from disease or starvation when they had to live in the wilderness but as far as I can tell many of them simply gave up and ended it all… Mirtil lived in the remains of the city of Mzulft for centuries, fighting the Betrayed and the few crazed automatons left behind by their masters. He has more reason to be paranoid than anybody else. If it wasn't for the mutual assistance pact we made with the Dawnguard when we moved in here- we cleanse the castle and stop any remnants of the Volkhair Clan from returning, they patrol the area around here and stop anybody getting too close- we would have been dead already."

"But why stay here?" Lucius asked, his own curiosity about the Snow Elf remnants temporarily overriding any thoughts of his dreams meaning. "Surely the Chantry is more secluded and hidden away?"

"If we could, I would have taken every last Snow Elf into the Chantry's walls." Gelebor replied. "But the reason I came here was to seek aid against the Betrayed. I even brought the Bow and Shield of Auri-El with me because I feared that the magical wards I placed on the Chantry wouldn't keep them out for long. I would have asked for your help in clearing the Betrayed out of the Vale but I fear you must have something more important on your mind, or else you would have come here sooner and looking less distressed."

Lucius nodded slowly. "The Second Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion happened." He said simply. "If your Aldmeri cousins weren't busy trying to wrest control of Morrowind and battling the Imperial Navy off the coast of Cyroddil I would have come sooner to see your little enclave."

"If things are so bad out there…" Gelebor said with a raised eyebrow. "Why are you here now?"

Lucius paused, hearing the gentle patter of water and the sound of the door at the back of the room creaking slightly ajar, before he sighed and said simply, feeling slightly foolish for saying those same four words again and again. "The Dwemer have returned."

If Gelebor was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead he only looked mournful and turned to look up at the statue of Auri-El, as if seeking some kind of divine inspiration like Lucius had received.

"I guess I always thought that all their technology and power wouldn't let something as simple as wiping themselves from existence stop them. I never encountered them in the flesh when they walked in Tamriel all those eras ago, my service to the Chantry kept me away from their cities and fortresses. But I've heard Prince Mirtil's stories, of the Dwemer's honour and bravery, but also their cruelty and reckless disregard for anyone except their own race. They even had their own term in Dwemeris, their language, for non-Dwemer. Kar-Din- lesser races." He added with a look of disdain crossing his face.

Gelebor turned to look at Lucius again, putting a hand to his forehead as if trying to calm himself down from some unseen rage inside him. "But why do you need to specifically speak to the Snow Elves about this? Our great armies of gleaming blades and strong shields are gone, all but one of our fortresses is buried underneath ancient Nord barrows and tombs. How can a near extinct race help you fight against the might of the Dwemer?"

Lucius shook his head sadly. "I didn't come for military aid. I came for spiritual aid. While I slept I received a vision from the Daedra."

"Which one of those foul creatures spoke to you?" Gelebor said warily and Lucius shrugged before saying.

"All of them…"

At this point Lucius saw Gelebor's hand instinctively go to the sword at his waist, and quickly continued speaking.

"They told me that I was to be their champion- to destroy the Dwemer race for eternity. But then… another came. Akatosh, in the form of a towering dragon made of fire. He scattered the Daedra and then he spoke to me, telling me that if the Daedra destroyed the Dwemer, then all would be lost. I just don't understand and I figured that someone who has spent his entire life serving Akatosh, or Auri-El, or whatever name the Chief of the Divines goes by, should know what to do…"

The Snow Elf nodded slowly. "I must admit I am not exactly knowledgeable on the prophecy of the Dragonborn, but I have spent many centuries meditating on the different incarnations of Akatosh, both Man and Mer. You say he appeared in the form of a dragon, burning in holy fire? I read much on the avatar of Akatosh that appeared in the Oblivion Crisis and other instances of the burning dragon and have found that the dragon of fire is very much the preferred form of Akatosh when he faces other deities. Had the setting been more peaceful he would have most likely appeared as a humanoid figure with the head of a dragon and that of a man."

The Imperial nodded quickly. "Yes of course. But what is this balance that must be upheld and Akatosh seemed to be speaking of?"

"It is widely believed by religious scholars who look at the gods as more than just a bargaining tool or way to better themselves, that there is some kind of cosmic balance out there in Aetherius, that, for all the gods, the Aedra, Daedra and another entities, there is a general peace of sorts between them. The Oblivion Crisis that ended the Third Era is one of the few examples of this balance between Aedra and Daedra being broken, and I trust you understand the magnitude of what happened there? Had Martin Septim and his champion not halted the plans of Mehrunes Dagon, Oblivion and Nirn would have been thrown together like wrecked ships on a stormy sea, and would have destroyed each other in the process. I believe that what Akatosh, or Auri-El, or whatever you wish to call him, is trying to tell you is, that there are some deep and powerful forces readying themselves for this war, and that whatever is going to happen, you, the Dragonborn, must make sure that not only is peace restored to Tamriel, but that the gods themselves do not destroy themselves in the process. As for the destruction of the Dwemer, have you ever read up on the histories of the races that were 'lost'? The Dwemer, the Ayelids, the…Snow Elves. When a race is simply wiped from existence or descends into such savagery and bestiality that it seems impossible to redeem, there are serious consequences both for the material world and the heavens. When the Dwemer disappeared the Chimer race was lost with them. When the Ayelids descended into Daedra worshipping savagery, it is said that the stars themselves seemed to fall from the sky, seemed to weep for their fallen worshippers. Tamriel is in chaos enough already without this kind of strange events happening."

Lucius took a deep breath, covering his face with his hands and sitting down heavily on the cold stone steps at his feet, his cloak billowing out around him. "I…" he began, then shook his head. "I…I don't know if I can do this. Until a few years ago I was just a man from the Imperial City looking to make his fortune in Skyrim. I've battled dragons, vampires and the armies of the Thalmor but this…" he said, throwing a hand out to indicate the rom before him, and the statue of Auri El to his right. "This talk of cosmic balances and a war between the Daedra and the Dwemer. I just, I can't do it… Give me an enemy I can see, that will stand toe to toe with me on a battlefield and I'll take them down or die trying. But against the Daedra? And for some reason I have to stop two seemingly irredeemable groups from wiping each other out for the sake of some cosmic balance? How am I mean to fight against one while the other is trying to kill both me and the one I myself am battling against? Sometimes Gelebor, sometimes I just wish I wasn't the Dragonborn. That I was really just some oddball from Cyroddil and not the man who has to clean up the collective cosmic shit of this world until I breathe my last. That's why I always seem to never take things seriously, why my campaign tent with the Legion had piles of loot from my adventures and random things from my travels not boring old maps and supply manifestos. That's why my house in Solitude is more like a tavern for friends from my travels not some kind of temple to my cosmic 'father' Akatosh. I always figured that maybe if I actually tried to stay as far away from that old cliché of the strong and silent hero who saves the world on a daily basis and does nothing else, I wouldn't go mad or break down like…like this I guess." He added with a grim smile.

Gelebor looked down at Lucius with a sympathetic but distant look on his face. "Sometimes Dra- Lucius." He corrected himself quickly. "Sometimes we just have to admit that maybe the reason the Divines placed us on this mortal plane is not for our own selfish desires. The Divines only know what our true potential and destiny is. But if no one can stop the Dwemer and the Daedra tearing the world apart, what kind of hero of mankind and son of Auri-El are you truly? What kind of saviour only saves the people around him when he feels like it? When the Betrayed stormed the Chantry all that time ago, did I just stand idly by and watch my brothers be slaughtered? Did I even think for a second why it had to be me? No. I picked up my sword and I led the Knight Paladins of Auri-El into battle one last time. And though the Knights of Auri-El may be dead I still recognise an honourable fight when I see one. And that is why I pledge my sword to your cause Dragonborn, and to that of Auri-El."

And with that the Snow Elf dropped to his knees, drawing his sword and laying it across his palms, offering it in the ancient gesture of friendship and loyalty.

Lucius' eyes widened at the Snow Elf's forward actions. It must have taken a supreme amount of courage to basically pledge himself to revealing his race's continuing existence to those who might hunt them down, and he respected Gelebor, both as a warrior and a scholar, to trust that he was indeed doing the right thing.

Just as he was about to accept Gelebor's proposal, he heard another voice echoing across the empty cathedral, a proud voice which he instantly recognised, even though he had only heard it once.

"Who said the Knights of Auri-El were dead, Gelebor?"

As one the Imperial and the Snow Elf turned, to see the smirking form of Prince Mirtil, the slender Snow Elf leaning casually against a pillar across the room, arms folded.

"How long have you been here?" Lucius asked warily and Mirtil shrugged, relaxing his arms and tapping his chin with one snow white finger.

"Long enough to know two things. The Dwemer have returned, and the Knights of Auri-El must march out to battle them this time, not try and make deals like our cowardly predecessors."

"Are you saying…?" Lucius began but Mirtil interrupted him quickly.

"Don't think I'm doing this for your benefit, outsider. The Snow Elves have hidden in the darkness for too long, scared of the Deep Elves and Nords alike. When we march out in force we will at least show them that, though our numbers may be a fraction of what thy one were, we are not afraid anymore."

He turned, seeing Lucius and Gelebor's shocked expressions. "What are you staring at? If you want my warriors help you could at least show some gratitude. Now…outsider, where are we heading?"

Lucius nodded slowly before he spoke. "Whiterun. We ride for Whiterun. High King Balgruuf must be informed, and the armies of Skyrim must be ready for battle."


	11. Chapter 11- Vvardenfell in Flames

_Another hail of gold tipped arrows came flying down towards the Imperial shield wall, glinting in the bright sunlight like miniature stars before burying themselves in the thick wood of the Legionnaires shields. _

"_Hold!" Serana shouted, crouched behind the stout form of the Spellbreaker, the polished white metal seeming to shimmer and crackle with magical energy as the Dwemer arrows clattered off its smooth surface. Gripping the glowing form of the Dawnbreaker sword, its blade the colour of sunlight, she breathed deeply as the weight of the shield pressed down on her arm, glad she was wearing her tough Dragonbone armour, but also feeling guilt compared to all the soldiers beside her in light armour._

_On all sides of the small Imperial formation the former vampire was leading, the plains around Red Mountain were playing host to a massacre. Line after line of gleaming gold Dwemer infantry carved their way through the Imperial lines, their swords rising and falling in unison, as machinelike as the automatons that fought alongside them._

"_What should we do my lady?!" demanded the Legionnaire to her right, his face caked in dried blood and beads of sweat. "What can we do against these metal men?"_

_Suddenly a crossbow bolt punched through the soldier's shield and straight through his chest and, as he fell back and began choking and spewing blood, Serana had a glimpse of the horrors playing out across the battlefield._

_All around scattered groups of Legionnaires ran and cowered, screaming in terror and pain as the emotionless golden forms of the Dwemer soldiers advanced upon them, not breaking formation even as a few lucky Imperial arrows and sword thrusts took down their comrades. Some Legionnaires stood and fought, but were cut to pieces by hails of arrows and crossbow bolts, painting the baked earth crimson. And amongst it all came the infernal bronze forms of the Dwarven automatons, groups of Spheres rolling across the battlefield, firing their crossbows in all directions as they hacked down fleeing Imperials with their mechanical swords. And, with a scraping of metal on earth, a unit of five Spheres changed course and charged towards_

_The clattering of hooves caused her and the other terrified soldiers in her formation to look away from the oncoming automatons, as a group of Imperial cavalry, their steel swords in hand, charged the machine-soldiers, at their head Legate Rikke, her helmet off and her dark brown hair hanging wildly around her sweat stained face as she rammed her blade through the metal face of one of the Spheres._

_For a second Serana felt her thumping heart, a sensation she was still getting used to after centuries of being a vampire, begin to slow from its mad rate at the sight of the Imperial cavalry saving them from certain death. Then she saw another Sphere rush at the Legate, hacking down a cavalryman and his horse with one sweep of its weapon and, as Rikke raised her sword to defend herself, hack straight through the steel sword, knocking Rikke from her horse._

_Just as the Sphere raised its blade to finish the brave Legate off, Serana leapt to her feet, throwing the Spellbreaker aside and letting forth a bolt of lightning from her left hand, which slammed straight into the automaton. The Sphere seemed unaffected, the magic energy simply crackling around its golden form for a second before disappearing, but by then the Legate was up, drawing her dagger and plunging the blade straight into the automatons back, the Sphere instantly falling to the baked earth with a whir of broken machinery._

_Breathing heavily Serana ran over to the Legate, the sounds of clashing blades and scream of terrified Imperials seeming to fade into the background as the Legate shouted a quick order at her._

"_Auxiliary! General Tullius has called for a full retreat. Take your men and get them out of here! We'll rendezvous at Balmora! Move it! The cavalry will cover the retreat." she added for emphasis as she leapt atop her horse once more._

_Serana nodded and, as she turned to go, offered the Dawnbreaker to the Legate, whose eyes widened for a second at the glowing sword, before quickly taking it, nodding stiffly by way of thanks._

"_You'll need it more than I will." Serana explained simply as she readied two fireball spells in her hands._

_The Legate nodded and charged off into the battle beyond, and Serana ran, trying to block out the screams and sounds of her comrades being slaughtered on all sides._

"Auxiliary!" shouted a gruff voice, and Serana shook herself awake, the gentle swaying motion of the horse below her bringing her out of her nightmares of the massacre at Red Mountain.

Blinking a few times to clear her vision, the former vampire looked out over the column of battered looking Imperial soldiers riding on the road in front of and behind her, the skies above a deep brown streaked with grey ash clouds.

"Auxiliary!" came the voice again, and instantly Serana turned to see the unsmiling face of General Tullius. The old soldier had escaped the battle with the Dwemer alongside her all those days ago, surprising for someone she had seen battling with the Dwemer's elite spider riding cavalry almost singlehanded after his Firstborn division were slaughtered. Although his ornate armour was dented and his gaunt face was covered in bruises and the odd half healed scar, he still remained calm and composed, as always.

Brushing her hair away from her eyes, Serana took a moment to compose herself. The memories of that battle would haunt her for a long time yet. And though the Dawnbreaker sword and Dragonbone armour were gone- the latter thrown aside in her haste to escape the battlefield, she still felt slightly naked without them.

'At least this armours more comfortable," she thought to herself. The light red Legion armour was much less cumbersome, while the steel Imperial sword at her hip was much lighter than the strange bronze of the Dawnbreaker.

"Sorry General," She said with a sigh. "I was…still thinking about what happened at Red Mountain.

Tullius nodded, his grim frown seeming to soften slightly, which seemed to be the general's version of smiling. She remembered Lucius once telling her that he had never seen the old general smile, except during the raucous night of celebrating the end of the Stormcloak rebellion in Solitude.

"Of course." He said, his voice not as grating as he spoke again. "I don't think I could ever reprimand a soldier for showing emotion. I wouldn't want some army of emotionless automatons like those gods forsaken Dwemer do anyway…"

For a second the general paused, and Serana followed his gaze to the view on either side of the wide cobblestone Imperial road, at the rolling ash plains covered in a patchwork of fields and ruined farmhouses.

"The Dwemer?" she asked as her keen eyes picked out a few scattered Dunmer corpses lying amongst the trampled crops.

Tullius nodded. "I still remember when we first came down this road and this was lush farmland. The Dwemer must have sent out raiding parties to burn the countryside, force our men out."

"Or to send a message." Serana added darkly as they passed by a row of blood-stained spikes, atop each one the pale head of a Legionnaire, only recognisable by the battered steel and leather helmets they wore. She pointed a steel gauntleted hand out over the fields beyond. "Do you think the Dwemer left any troops to ambush us?"

Tullius shook his head. "I doubt those golden bastards even know the meaning of the word. From the little I've read about them, and from what I can remember from fighting them on the battlefield, subtle is not exactly something they do…"

Despite the general's encouraging words, as the column of men on horseback and carts filled with wounded and what few supplies they had managed to scavenge clattered past the row of soldier's heads, Serana felt a cold feeling in her stomach. It wasn't necessarily at the brutality, she had seen far worse during her time as a vampire and it was actually almost tame by the standards of the Volkhair Clan, but it was the meanings behind it. This wanton brutality just didn't seem to be the same as the almost machinelike and clinical Dwemer soldiers on the battlefield. Whoever had done this was a very different beast to the calm and emotionless Dwarves she had seen. And, in her experience, rogue mavericks like this Dwemer raider were always much more dangerous than the more organised commanders and comrades they fought for.

As she thought about this, she noticed that the spikes with heads on them continued further up the road, carrying on for what seemed like miles, all at regular intervals, not just Legionnaires now but House Redoran troops in bonemold helmets.

"Has there been any word from Balmora?" Serana asked as the column marched on, the low mutter of hushed conversations and creak of men readying bows and crossbows for action filling the air, along with the distant squawk of the messenger hawks in the cart up ahead, and the muffled moaning of the wounded as a few harried healers attempted to patch them up with a mixture of spells and herbal remedies.

Tullius shook his head. "I sent a detachment of five riders out about a day ago when we pitched camp for the night. Haven't heard anything since. They're probably dead." He added and sighed. "Sometimes I just wish I could retire, live out my days in Solitude or Whiterun with my wife. Maybe fish out on Lake Innilata. I always did have a bit of a soft spot for Skyrim weather and Cyroddil just seems a bit…plain…after all I've seen."

He almost looked about to smile, when he looked closely at one of the heads they passed, and turned to Serana.

"How many heads do you estimate there are here, Auxiliary?"

Serana thought about it for a second, then replied. "At least five hundred."

The general nodded. "I would say about five hundred and fifty, the same as the garrison we left in Balmora. We will be receiving no help from them." He added simply, and sighed. "We'll have to head to the port at Fort Reclusion if we want to have any chance of getting off this rock and to any kind of reinforcements."

As he said this a Legionnaire came clattering down the column, saluting quickly.

"General Tullius sir! Grandmaster Delphine and the scouts have returned and wish to give their report."

Tullius nodded before saying. "Understood soldier. I'll be there right away. And don't salute while we're in a warzone! Do you want any ambushers knowing exactly who's in charge?"

As the general followed the messenger further up the column, Serana suppressed a smile. Tullius hadn't changed a bit. Even though, in his ornate armour, he stuck out amongst the drab reds of the other Legion troops, he still kept to protocol.

She sighed. That sounded like something Lucius would say. She wished he was here. The last she had seen of him was him fighting in the very heart of the battle as elite Blades and Legion soldiers alike were hacked down by the Dwemer, he had somehow managed to fight on. She didn't blame him for running. From her position higher up the foothills of Red Mountain, she had seen how Lucius' position was being overrun by a seemingly endless line of automatons and armoured Dwarven warriors. Lucius was a lot of things- a skilled warrior, expert blacksmith and total lightweight drinker who could pass out from barely two meads- but he was not a coward. Odahviing must have said something to him that convinced him to leave, she was sure of it. In the three years she had known him, he had never backed down from a fight, even when it may have resulted in his death.

She was brought out of her thoughts by a shrill young voice shouting her name.

"Lady Serana! Lady Serana!"

She didn't even need to turn towards the sound of hooves getting closer to know exactly who it was. Agmaer was flustered and red faced when she turned to look at him. The young former farmhand, now member of the Dawnguard, had never been a great rider, and he had the habit of calling literally everyone 'Lord' or 'Lady'.

However he looked every inch the warrior in his heavy Blades armour, katana at his hip. Technically Agmaer had only meant to be an observer of the Blades tactics for the Dawnguard- learning their techniques and how they might be used against vampires- but now it seemed he was an unofficial member until they reached safety.

"What is it Agmaer?" she said kindly, trying not to let her own doubts and fears make her lash out at the poor man, who still looked shaken from the horrors of the battle against the Dwemer.

"It's Lydia." He replied simply. "She's awake. But that's all the good news I have about her…"

000000

They rode quickly back down the column, and Serana saw the state of the few hundred survivors that Tullius had led from that hellish battlefield. A dozen battered wooden carts were piled high with the few supplies that had been foraged from the devastated land beyond, or else filled instead with the groaning and howling forms of the wounded, a few harried healers and priests in blood-spattered robes moving amongst them, attempting to stop the soldiers' pain with what little potions and healing magic they had left. She could see that most of the healers were ready to drop themselves, the toll of trying to use so much magic over such a long period really taking their toll on them. The rest of the men were all on horseback- the one advantage of having such a small force- but many of them were worse for wear too, their armour battered and their faces set in expressions of sorrow or just blankly staring ahead, many of them draped in bandages around the stumps of limbs or wounds upon their chests. Some were muttering prayers to the Divines, the others trying to talk amongst themselves or just ignore the devastated plains on all sides, or the smoke rising from behind them in the distance.

Lydia was laid out on the back of one of the last carts, along with a few wounded men still able to heft a bow, watching for any enemy movement. The brave housecarl's heavy Imperial armour was laid out beside her along with her weapons, and the white cloth short and ragged brown trousers made her look frail and thin, a direct contrast to the proud warrior Serana knew her to be. But it was the state of Lydia's right arm that made Serana wince. The entire forearm was gone, cleanly sliced off by a Dwemer blade, the wad of stained bandages around it hiding what was most likely a grisly sight.

"Gods…" Serana cursed softly, wishing that Lucius was here now to support one of his oldest friends. The Nord housecarl's eyes fluttered open slowly as Serana climbed onto the back of the cart and sat by her, Agmaer taking hold of her horse and keeping pace with the cart atop his own mount.

"Oh, hey Serana…" Lydia said groggily, a gormless smile on her face. 'Those calm spells the healers are using must be working…' Serana thought to herself as the housecarl clumsily shifted herself up and looked out.

"W-where's Hadvar?" she asked, her voice beginning to return to normal, her eyes widening. "Where is he? Last time I saw him he was with Lucius. Where is he?! Where are they?!" she said, her voice getting more panicked and louder. Serana knew that Lydia was in a bad state now. The housecarl would never have been this weak and screechy normally.

"Shhh... it's going to be fine." Serana said soothingly, noticing other Legionnaires around them looking at them nervously. "You just need to…"

"Enemies incoming!" came a shout, as a Blade in battered armour came riding down the convoy, his sword out as he bellowed. "Form up!"

"Shit…" Serana cursed as she saw a dust cloud on the road behind, getting steadily closer. Glancing left and right, she saw two more dust clouds either side, as the Legionnaires still battle-ready drew their swords and reined in their mounts.

"What's happening? What are we…?" Lydia demanded, and Serana sighed quickly as she drew her own sword, the unfamiliar Imperial steel feeling strange and off balance in her hands.

"I'm sorry Lydia…" she said simply, before punching her in the jaw, the housecarl falling back to the floor of the wagon. Serana threw a blanket over the top of the prone Nord. Lydia was no help to them while she was still delirious, and now any attackers would think of putting a sword through the still-traumatised housecarl.

"Lady Serana! We need to reinforce the back of the column!"

Standing up in the cart Serana accepted the offered hand from Agmaer as he pulled her atop his horse. She looked out over the column as the carts sped up, their drivers spurring the horses on while those wounded still able to fight clutched bows and spears to themselves, ready to repel any attackers even though they weren't fit to fight. Agmaer brought them around to the last cart in the line, this one already filled with three wounded Legionnaire's clutching bows, and a few stacks of arrows.

From up ahead she could hear shouted orders and Legionnaires calling out to one another, and above it all the dull bellow of Legate Tacitus- the general's second in command, echoing over the clatter of steel and rumble of carts beyond.

"Get the carts out of here! All riders form up on your commanders! The general wants every messenger hawk out of here! To Skyrim, to Cyroddil, to High Rock! Get them sent or you'll be running there yourself!"

Looking out over the plain Serana focused on the dust cloud directly behind them, already the dim sunlight illuminating on golden metal as the riders came into focus.

"How many do you reckon there are?" she asked the Legionnaire to her left, a wide eyed Breton, who shrugged and replied in between chattering teeth.

"At least a hundred from all sides. We can't fight them! We're all dead!"

Serana roughly thrust a bow into the Breton's trembling hands. "We will be if we don't fight back. Now bring down those golden bastards!"

By the time she had shifted her weight, quickly throwing a quiver full of arrows to the nearest archer, a slim Redguard man with a bandage across one eye, the Dwemer cavalry were now visible.

A column of armoured golden warriors atop shining bronze spider automatons, long bronze spears and heavy shields in hand, came charging straight towards the column, a few stray Imperial arrows burying into the road around them. And, at the very head of the spearhead was a huge Dwemer warrior, a greatsword held in one hand as if it weighed nothing, the other holding an equally large shield with a single huge ruby set into the boss at the centre, and his armour was a deep crimson- the colour of blood- while the helmet bore a nightmarish snarling face across its visor.

"It is the Crimson Reaper!" shouted the one eyed Redguard archer next to Serana. "The Day of Red Sands is happening again! The old stories were true!"

"Keep it together soldier!" Serana snapped. "Agmaer! Throw me your crossbow!"

The young Dawnguard member instantly threw across the powerful weapon, drawing his sword with a clatter of metal as he rode alongside the cart, flinching as Imperial red fletched arrows flew overhead and the Riders of Dahaka drew ever closer.

Quickly dropping her sword Serana pushed the stock of the crossbow into her shoulder, steadying the weapon and taking a deep breath, just as Lucius had taught her-whilst he had at the same time been shamefully but ineffectually flirting with her. She knew Agmaer was a better shot- had seen him nail a gargoyle between the eyes at a hundred paces, but he was a terrible horse archer.

She fired quickly, the recoil slamming into her shoulder, but the red armoured Dwemer contemptuously knocked the bolt from the air with his shield, so close now she could see the steam hissing from his automatons joints and the brown cloak billowing out from his shoulders like a battle flag. More arrows flew towards the rider and his men, but their thick armour easily deflected the arrows, and already Serana could hear the sounds of battle from all sides, the other two Dwemer forces evidently already at the Imperial convoy.

Agmaer tossed over a steel bolt and she grabbed it from the air, attempting to slide it into place.

"Shit! The damn things jammed!" she cursed, watching in horror as the red armoured rider came ever closer.

"It's Cuolec the Red! The Crimson Reaper!" the Redguard Legionnaire shrieked in fear, falling to the floor of the cart and dropping his bow, covering his face with his hands. The other two Legionnaires, the wide eyed Breton and a tough looking Nord woman with a jagged scar across her forehead, grimly drew their swords, willing but unready to face the Dwemer warriors in battle.

Serana still struggled with the crossbow, until she felt the cart drop slightly and a firm but gentle hand took the crossbow from her, effortlessly clearing the jam and aiming the weapon.

"Agmaer?" she said in slight disbelief, as the farm boy stood up in the cart, the sunlight shining off his Blades armour and the determined look on his face seeming to transform him from a foolish young man to a proud warrior- a true Nord.

Without another word Agmaer fired, and Serana watched as the bolt flew out, punching straight through the front of Cuolec's mount and out the other side. For a second the Dwemer bore down on them regardless until, with a shudder and whir of broken machinery, the automaton sputtered and began smoking, then fell straight towards the baked earth.

If he was surprised in any way, the huge Dwemer warrior didn't show it, as he instantly threw aside his shield and greatsword, leaping through the air, drawing a golden shortsword from his belt in mid-air, and landing in a crouch atop the back of the cart.

Serana and Agmaer took a step back in shock at the Dwemer's actions. Losing his mount had barely slowed him down.

The Nord and Breton soldiers rushed forward, slashing at him simultaneously. In one swift movement Cuolec parried one attack and dodged the other, slitting the throat of the Nord with a sweep of his blade and shoving the Breton aside with one moment of his armoured right shoulder, the Breton tumbling over the side of the cart and the whole wagon jumping up slightly as it rolled over his body.

He advanced slowly, the Redguard soldier still crouched in the middle of the wagon, mumbling to himself.

As Cuolec walked forward casually, the other Dwemer riders came alongside, readying their spears and swords, but he waved them away with a casual flick of his hand as he unclasped the ornate brooch tha held his cloak in place, letting it fall from his shoulders to the floor of the cart.

"Leave them." He snapped in a low tone, dripping with menace. "The Nord bitch and the little man are mine."

"Just like the stories!" the Redguard gibbered and Cuolec paused, turning his head to look down at the man through his visor.

"Not even worth the effort." He said with a hint of laughter, yet still took the soldier's head from his shoulders with one clean sweep anyway.

"We have to take him down!" Serana shouted over the clatter of blades and screams of men and Dwemer alike from all around, and Agmaer nodded grimly. In front of them the cart driver attempted to bring them around a group of Legionnaires and Riders of Dahaka trading blows from atop their mounts, and, just as he brought them past, a glittering spear punched through his throat and he fell off the side, his killer carrying on as the horse in front madly charged through the melee, the cart rocking and bucking underneath its occupants.

Cuolec seemed unsure on the uneven surface, but his heavy armour kept him centred as he advanced on the two Nords, his bloody sword held to the side as he walked forward on steady but slow footsteps.

"A shame really." He said simply. Cuolec didn't seem to be one for long speeches. "I was hoping for a fair fight."

Suddenly from the left came the thunder of hooves and a single figure, clad in Blades armour inlaid with gold and a single dragon in bright green emerald on the breastplate, leapt from their horse onto the centre of the cart.

"Maybe I can even things up a bit." Delphine, Grandmaster of the Blades, replied with a slight smile as she straightened up, her helmet off to reveal her drawn and slightly wrinkled features, but her eyes were bright and filled with a fiery determination as she drew her two katanas, the twin Akavari swords seeming to sing as they left their sheathes.

"Go now." She said firmly to Agmaer and Serana as she adopted a fighting stance, her left sword above her head and the other held directly in front of her.

The two Nords didn't need any more encouragement as they both clumsily leapt atop Agmaer's horse, which was somehow still alive and keeping pace with the cart, and clattered along the battle torn column and away.

"Foolish Kar-Din." Cuolec mocked as the two expert warriors circled one another. "I have killed dozens just like you in my life. I have faced Daedra and Dunmer, monsters and heroes, and have never shown any mercy or given any quarter."

Delphine smiled slightly. "I remember Esbern telling me once about you Dwemer. Arrogant, foolish and as full of shit as a tavern outhouse. I have studied the battle arts of Akavir and Cyroddil, the sword singers of Hammerfell and the ice fencing of the Snow Elves. You are nothing but a lesson on Dwemer fighting styles…" she added confidently.

Cuolec laughed. "Scholars talk. Warriors act."

And with that Delphine leapt forward, bringing both blades up towards her chest and slashing in a reverse scissor motion which Cuolec parried with a swing of his blade, the two warriors grunting with the effort as he pushed back, freeing his own blade as Delphine jumped backwards and instantly counter attacking, the Blade dodging his strike and slashing back, bringing one sword down then the other, keeping up a flurry of blows which either glanced off the Dwemer's armour or he fended off with rough but strong movements of his own sword.

For a second the two warriors circled one another once more, searching for any opening s the cart continued to madly thunder down the road.

Then Cuolec started forward, both hands gripping the handle of his blade as he slashed straight at Delphine, the elderly warrior easily sidestepping the blow and slashing for the Dwemer's face.

Her sword clattered off the crest of Cuolec's helm, but not before she brought her other blade around and, in one swift but precise movement, tore the helmet from the Dwemer's head before he even had a chance to react.

For a second Cuolec blinked in the bright sun, his jagged scars seeming to almost pulse red with rage as he thrust at Delphine, the rubies in his beard tinkling and jangling softly in time with his grunts and muffled curses.

"Don't worry." Delphine said breathlessly in-between attacks as she drove the Dwemer towards the back of the cart. "Let me add a few extra scars to your collection."

Cuolec snarled in rage, bringing his elbow up and ramming it into the Blade's face, grinning slightly as the crack of her nose breaking came in time with the thump of his armour on her cheek and he kicked out at her knee, the Blade's thick armour the only thing saving her from a shattered leg. Bringing the pommel of his blade up as he had no room to bring the sword itself up, he smashed it into Delphine's forehead, stunning her momentarily and opening up an ugly gash across her tanned skin, blood pumping out freely and down her face.

But the veteran Blade wasn't out yet. Rolling to one side she scooped up Agmaer's crossbow from where it lay on the cart floor, throwing it at Cuolec's face. The Dwemer easily knocked it aside, but it was all the openings she needed to leap forward, bringing her sword down on the warrior's face.

A slight movement of the cart as it passed over a rock saved the Dwemer from having his head sliced in two, merely slicing a few strands from his beard before clattering off his neck armour. Cuolec wasted no time though, driving Delphine back with a flurry of wide sweeps of his blade, the sword a golden blur as he swept it back and forth in a seemingly mad but actually expert series of quick attacks and slashes.

Delphine dodged his sweeps before leaping over his sword and elbowing him back, bringing her swords around in a powerful slash which Cuolec only just dodged, then, bringing her right sword up, switched her grip on it in mid-air, holding the sword in a backhand motion like a dagger, then bringing the weapon down on Cuolec's left hand side, cutting through the bronze chainmail underneath his shoulder pad and biting deep into his arm.

The Dwemer hissed in pain but showed little other sign of being affected as he stepped further back towards the back edge of the cart.

"Wish I'd poisoned that sword." Delphine muttered to herself as the burly Dwemer fell back, then, sensing an opportunity, attacked him head on; bringing her left sword straight down towards his neck, ready to finish this fight once and for all.

Cuolec brought his arm back, gripping his sword tighter as he swung. But, instead of deflecting the blow, he swung even harder and the two swords slammed into each other.

For a millisecond the two blades met with a clash of steel on golden Dwarven metal before, with a sharp crack and clatter, the Dwemer forged blade cut straight through Delphine's sword, the ancient Akavir steel no match for the Dwemer's advanced metalwork, and the sword swung at the Blade's shoulder and straight through her armour, biting deep into the flesh and muscle beneath, blood pumping out over the steel armour.

Instead of throwing aside the broken sword, Delphine, gritting her teeth and breathing heavily, managed to dodge the Dwemer's next blow as he tore the sword from her shoulder in a fountain of blood and pieces of flesh. Then, with one last defiant cry, she swung the blade, taking a chunk of flesh from his unscarred cheek before both swords fell from her fast weakening grip and she fell hard on the wooden floor of the cart, the uneven movements jolting her body back and forth like a ragdoll.

His face set in an expression of pure rage, Cuolec wiped a smear of blood from the hole in his cheek and, through a combination of sheer will and pure adrenaline, drew back his fist and punched downwards, being rewarded with the snap of bone and the wet smack of blood as his fist caved in her entire left cheek.

Looking down at the bloodied from of the Grandmaster, a smile crossed Cuolec's face. He didn't care about the battle out there, ignored the screech of horses and clatter of automatons, the howls of the dead and dying. This one victory was enough for him.

He brought his fist up again, the gauntlets caked in hot wet blood, and drove it down again, Delphine screaming in agony as he brought his fist down again and again upon her face before driving a punch into her breastplate and winding her, her own armour pressing deep into her chest and knocking the breath from her body.

Spitting on her prone form, Cuolec roughly pulled her to her feet, the Blade feebly punching him in the side before he head-butted her directly in the face and she went limp. He dragged her to the edge of the cart, the road behind littered with dead horses and Imperial and Dwemer corpses alike.

"Aren't you going to finish it?" Delphine spluttered, still defiant as blood bubbled up and out of her mouth.

Cuolec shook his head and grinned. "No…you were much too fun to fight to let you die now. I'm not worried. If you're good enough you'll survive. Then, you come find me. I'll be knee deep in the ashes of your cities and the corpses of your kinsmen, but I'll still be waiting. Waiting for a rematch, and another chance to have more fun than I've had in centuries. I hope this lesson on Dwemer combat has been informative…" he added before, with another laugh, he hurled Delphine from the cart, her body bucking and rolling across the hard stone before slamming into a downed automaton and lying there.

"Commander Cuolec!" called out a voice, and he turned to see one of his lieutenants, Nakhada, draw up and keep pace with the still moving cart atop his automaton, his eyes wide with glee behind his helmet visor and his spear painted crimson in Kar-Din blood. Behind him could be heard the screams as the last few Imperial soldiers were cut to pieces or ridden down as they ran away. "We have routed the Kar-Din and recovered the Spellbreaker from the baggage cart."

Cuolec only nodded as Nakhada continued. "A few Kar-Din dogs have managed to fight their way through our outriders. Shall I take some men and pursue?

The Dwemer commander shook his head. "Let them run. Let them tell their friends and allies exactly what they face. I like to give my prey warning before I run it into the ground."

Nakhada saluted and rode away. For a second Cuolec watched the defeated form of the Blade on the road behind lie motionless before he went to retrieve his sword from where he had dropped it and, as he looked back over his shoulder, he could just see Delphine beginning to, agonisingly slowly but surely, crawl away.

000000

Serana spurred the horse on, both hands on the reins, the strong warhorse carrying her and Agmaer fast across the plains of Vvardenfell. Beside them was General Tullius, his armour bent and split by Dwemer sword strokes but still going, his expression unreadable, and a handful of remaining Imperial soldiers. She was glad to see Lydia, draped over the back of a large draft horse, with a pale faced Nord priest of Kynareth keeping the horse steady as she rode it onward.

Behind them the column was a slaughter as the last few Imperial troops who hadn't been quick enough, or able, to run, were hacked to pieces.

"General, what can we do?!" demanded a terrified looking Nord Legionnaire. "I saw one of those riders cut Legate Tacitus in half like he was a piece of meat on a butchers slab!"

The general was silent for a second then replied, his voice as hard and uncompromising as the earth their horses pounded over on their mad retreat. "Now we run. We get back to our own lines. And when we do, we're going to bring back a whole army of men braver and stronger than those gold plated bastards could ever hope to be. Then…we beat them so bad they'll wish they had really been wiped from existence all those years ago…"

As the men around them cheered feebly, Serana took one last look at the horizon beyond the devastated column and she saw, in the distance, stretching out for miles upon miles, countless columns of smoke and tongues of flame, along with the tiny golden specks of more Dwemer cavalry as, beyond, Vvardenfell began to burn.


	12. Chapter 12- City on a Hill

The ride to Whiterun from Haafingar would normally have taken at least a week's journey at the fastest, and potentially almost two weeks on foot. But the pure white horses of the Snow Elves were fast and nimble, their slender forms unlike any other horses Lucius had seen in Skyrim, and they did it in barely half that time. Most of the horses he had seen here were the stocky draft horses of the Nords, and the powerful warhorses of the Imperial Legion. The mounts of the Snow Elves however were sleek and thin, almost fragile looking, but their feet carried himself and the two hundred Snow Elf warriors at his back over the plains of Skyrim so fast it seemed like they were merely floating above the grass.

Leaning into his saddle, Lucius casually cast a quick spell, letting a small orb of Candlelight hover above his head. The night had drawn in quickly and normally he would have wanted to rest for the night, but they were so close to Whiterun now. The Snow Elves had lit their own magical lights, all much larger and brighter than his. Lucius was no wizard and the only reason he knew the few spells he did was because of Serana's ruthless teaching and to stop him wasting so much money on healing potions.

To his left rode Gelebor and Prince Mirtil, the latter's cloak billowing out behind him in the wind, and behind them came the Snow Elf army. Two hundred warriors strong, every able bodied man and woman besides a skeleton crew left to defend the castle, the soldiers were resplendent in their white Ancient Falmer Armour, swords jangling in ornate sheathes at their sides as they held their silver lances, both elegant and deadly, at their sides, along with polished white shields and curved bows on their backs. He was surprised at the fact that they wore no helmets, merely small circlets of silver and moonstone that showed off their impressive white hair. Gelebor had explained it as the fact that the Snow Elves were very firm believers in the benefits of light troops and fast attacks and helmets merely obscured their view. Lucius could see they were a force to be reckoned with, despite their small numbers, but one thought still nagged at the back of his mind.

'What happens when they face an enemy who goes for their heads?'

As he thought this two Snow Elves came galloping back towards the column atop their own lightly armoured horses, part of the scouting group that Prince Mirtil had sent ahead.

The two scouts came alongside the three warriors at the head of the column, keeping pace with their fast steeds easily.

"Your majesty, Light of the Ice," The scout, a thin faced warrior with a slightly scared look in his eyes, said with a bow. "Whiterun is ahead. What are your orders?"

The prince glanced at Lucius briefly before saying simply.

"Well we shall ride straight to the Jarl's palace then. That's what you wanted isn't it Dragonborn?" he added, with the same amount of venom as before.

Gelebor frowned but his tone was polite and subservient. "Are you sure my lord? I don't know how the local Nords will take seeing a race that is supposed to be extinct."

"You worry far too much Knight-Paladin." The prince scoffed, and spurred his horse faster, the rest of the column thundering along the road behind him, and, as they crested the hill and looked out over the dark plain beyond, Whiterun was revealed, a mile in the distance.

The new capital of Skyrim sat atop a low hill, its three districts jostling for space behind the tall walls of stone and wood. The city was bathed in lit from countless torches and, as they rode on, Lucius could see the sprawl of elegant wooden houses, hundreds of them, spreading out over the vast city, their rooftops gleaming with yet more pinpricks of torchlight.

And, at the very top of the hill, surrounded by the long halls of the richest citizens and most powerful Thanes that formed the Cloud District, was Dragonsreach. Jarl Balgruff's castle was huge, towering above the city below, its stone towers and wooden roofs all bedecked with flags and pennants. And, from the tallest spire, Lucius could just see the huge form of a yellow flag, in its centre the horse crest of Whiterun Hold was lit up so it was visible for miles.

"Impressive," Prince Mirtil said flatly, before adding. "For a Nord city."

Biting back any comment, Lucius turned his attention to what lay outside the city's newly rebuilt walls. Whiterun was like a city within a city, as on the plain and foothills around it were the low forms of hundreds of tents and temporary structures, the lights of forges and braziers giving a soft glow to the countless tents and the figures that moved amongst them. As they came closer he could pick out the many colours of tents and the crests that crowned them. Many were the bright red of the Imperial Legion, but there was also the familiar yellow of Whiterun, the deep green of Markarth and the dark blue of Windhelm. There were even the colours of the smaller holds including a tiny row of five ice blue tents, marked by a single banner, from Winterhold.

"The armies of Skyrim are already gathering." Gelebor observed but Mirtil only laughed hollowly.

"It doesn't matter how many men and weapons they bring to bear. The Dwemer will sweep them from the field like wheat before a reaper."

Lucius sighed inwardly as he heard the Snow Prince's words. He would have liked to shout the arrogant Elf down, but in his heart he knew the prince was right. Unless something unexpected happened, he doubted that the armies of Skyrim, however brave and numerous they were, could hope to match the mechanised legions of the Dwemer.

By now they were reaching the edges of the vast military encampment, ringed by lines of anti-cavalry spikes made of sharpened stakes, groups of Whiterun Hold soldiers with spears and bows watching the perimeter.

As the Snow Elf column came clattering up to the 'gate' opening between the spikes, a squad of soldiers rushed out to bar their path with drawn swords.

"Stop right there Elf!" the leader shouted. "The city is under lockdown. You're lucky we didn't shoot you down for being Thalmor!"

Lucius saw the prince's hand going to the sword at his hip and he quickly moved to defuse the situation, riding between the Snow Elves and the guards, spreading his arms out wide in a gesture of friendship.

"Lower your weapons men," he said in a commanding tone. "I am Legate Lucius Arbitus of the Imperial Legion, Thane of Whiterun and Dragonborn of Akatosh. I wish to speak to the Jarl immediately."

Instantly the other soldiers lowered their swords, but the leader remained defiant.

"You may pass my Thane but these…Elves…"

"Are the last of the Snow Elves, come to pledge their aid to this war against the Dwemer."

For a second the guard paused, one hand raised, and Lucius imagined that behind the helmet that hid his face the man's mouth was open in complete shock and surprise.

"But…but the…" he spluttered and Prince Mirtil came forward, ignoring Lucius' concerned look as he leapt down from his horse and advanced towards the three guards.

"Yes…Nord," he said, rolling the word around its mouth as if it tasted foul. "I am a Snow Elf, the Snow Prince himself. And if you think that you and your slack jawed friends have any chance against an armoured Dwemer legion, then you are as stupid as your ancestors. I hope you aren't as murderous though," he added darkly. "Now, let us pass. Hopefully your Jarl will be more welcoming."

And with that he clambered back atop his horse and, giving the guard's mere seconds to move aside, rode up through the camp, Lucius and the Snow Elf column following behind. As they weaved their way through the series of camps on the narrow dirt road, groups of soldiers, squires, officers and camp followers came stumbling out to see the new arrivals, their faces set in almost identical expressions of shock and awe.

Lucius could understand their surprise. Snow Elves hadn't been seen in Skyrim since the time of Ysgramor and the colonisation of Tamriel by the Atmorans. The only other remnants of the once proud race, the twisted Falmer, were seen as little more than a subspecies of goblin. Few understood the true connection between the two very different groups, and only a tiny group of people, himself and Serana included, knew that pure Snow Elves still survived.

The column quickly trotted up the sloping foothills of Whiterun. On all sides Lucius marvelled at the newly rebuilt walls. The first time he had come to this city, after spending a few months in Riverwood and Falkreath, the city had been drab and the walls almost falling apart. Now the proud stone ramparts loomed up to over ten metres high, crowned with stout battlements and wooden spiked palisades and bedecked with yellow flags and bright torches. The once lichen and mould covered stone was now smooth quarried stone brick, giving the once drab defences a formidable look.

When they reached the main gate the Whiterun guards and Imperial soldiers standing by it quickly moved to open it, many of them recognising Lucius despite the fact he had replaced his distinctive Dragonbone armour with a stout set of leather armour and a large green cloak emblazoned with the ram's head of Markarth.

Acknowledging the soldiers' salutes with a respectful nod, Lucius led the Snow Elves into the city itself.

When he clattered up the main street of the Plains District, a wide avenue of cobbled stone with dozens of side streets branching off, he noticed that the large collection of blacksmith shops near the gate were all a hive of activity, even at this late hour, the clatter of steel and loud hiss of weapons being quenched in oil filled the air, along with a pall of grey smoke which rose above the dozens of wooden buildings that spread out over the largest of Whiterun's districts.

Lucius spied Adrienne Avennici, owner and main blacksmith of Warmaiden's, berating a group of half a dozen apprentices, her husband Ulbreth laughing from nearby as he carried a stack of steel swords to a large covered storage area filled with arms and armour. The Imperial blacksmith waved as Lucius rode past, trying not to stare at his companions before returning to her work. The streets around them were filled with Imperial soldiers and troops from every corner of Skyrim, many lining up to receive weaponry while labourers marched past with piles of wood and stone, evidently to add to the defences of the city. On all sides loomed the large forms of warehouses and trade workshops built from stout pines and wooden planks, crates and pallets filled with supplies visible through their open doors. In and out of them moved labourers and Imperial soldiers, hefting sacks and large boxes in a long chain of men heading towards the gates.

It took another five minutes at a slow trot to reach the main market, a circular square the size of Riverwood, the dozens of stalls all removed and replaced with a series of tents filled with supplies and crates of weaponry. Lucius could just see Belethor, the cranky owner of the biggest of the city's many general goods stores, halfway through an argument with a familiar looking Breton Legate, the two Breton men looking up as Lucius stopped beside them. The Prince brought his own mount to a halt and shouted out an order in their incomprehensible Elven tongue for the rest of the column to stop.

Legate Galliverie's eyes were wide as he approached Lucius, then his expression contorted into a frown, but his eyes were filled with relief and joy. "Where in Oblivion have you been? The troops from Winterhold managed to arrive before you and those sad little buggers were on a cramped little ship for almost a week!"

Lucius smiled as he replied, hearing the distinctive bellow of Eorland Gray-Mane echoing across the city from the Wind District as he did so, probably shouting at some poor group of apprentices. "I needed to…figure some things out." He said simply, his smile dying as he remembered the threats of the Daedra, and Gelebor telling him of how he had to stop them and the Dwemer from tearing each other, and Tamriel, apart.

"Well whatever you need to figure out you need to do it soon," The Legate said firmly. "Skyrim needs the Dragonborn. High King Balgruuf has been expecting you for a while now. Oh, and glad to see you brought some Snow Elves with you. I always wondered what they looked like."

The Dragonborn's eyes widened as the Legate began to walk away. "You're really that casual about a lost race coming back to Tamriel?"

"First it was the Dragons, then the Dwemer, now the Snow Elves are back. I wouldn't be surprised if the Ayelids turned up really. Strange things are afoot." The Legate called back over his shoulder as Lucius and the column sped on, past the lines of shops and houses towards the imposing gate to the Wind District.

Up ahead loomed the massive form of the restored Gildergreen tree. The giant tree seemed to glow slightly as they passed through the wide open square it dominated, and Lucius could just see the squat wooden form of the Companions mead hall Jorrvaskar behind a row of elegant wooden houses, the orange glow of the Skyforge just visible behind that.

When they reached the wide stone stairs that led up to the Cloud District, Mirtil raised a fist and the entire column halted. The Prince dismounted, along with Gelebor and Lucius.

Just as they were about to ascend the steps to Dragonsreach, dumbstruck Imperial and Nord soldiers looking on, Mirtil turned back to the waiting column of Snow Elf cavalry, his cloak whipping behind him.

"Jamar! I want you and five others with us every step of the way! I am not going into a Nord castle without some of the finest swordsmen in Tamriel at my back."

Lucius bit back a retort yet again, as they began to ascend the steep steps up to the high citadel of Whiterun.

000000

The vast great hall of Dragonsreach was alive with activity when Lucius and the Snow Elves arrived through the huge carved wooden doors at the front.

On all sides of the cavernous space groups of palace guards in polished mail and yellow surcoats stood by while here and there ran couriers and men with bundles of scrolls and papers. Lucius noticed a few groups of soldiers from each of the nine Holds also standing at the sides of the room, looking a bit lost.

But, as they walked up the main stairs, ignoring stares and whispered comments from palace staff and soldiers alike, Lucius finally got a view of the high table that the most powerful men and women in Skyrim sat around and talked of war.

The circular table was made of polished oak, with each of the Jarls sat around it along with various commanders and generals, both Imperial and from the Holds. The centre of the table was taken up by a large map of Skyrim covered with dozens of small coloured flags and hastily scribbled notes. All around the edges, from the burly form of Jarl Igmund of Markarth to the stern faced Jarl Merilis of Dawnstar, the leaders of Skyrim debated and talked amongst themselves, every so often an aide or messenger whispering in the ear of their lord or passing a scribbled note. And at the far end of the table was High King Balgruuf himself, the Jagged Crown, the Dragonbone and steel helm of the ancient High Kings of Skyrim, atop his long blonde hair, dressed in fine robes of red and gold. At his side was his new wife, Jarl Elisif of Solitude, a small thin faced young woman who looked almost like an innocent child compared to the hardened older men and women around the table. Lucius hadn't been surprised at hearing of the marriage between the two Jarls. It seemed a shrewd political move, and legitimised Balgruuf's claim to the throne after the crushing of Ulfric's rebellion. And, from what he had heard, the two of them were, surprisingly, very much in love, despite the pragmatic nature of their marriage. It was Elisif who noticed Lucius and his entourage first, standing up from her seat and calling out, her voice surprisingly firm and commanding.

"Dragonborn! My friends, Legate Lucius has arrived!"

Instantly every head in the room turned to look at him and Lucius felt a slight twinge of embarrassment. He never liked being singled out like this. But he still bowed regardless as Brunwulf Free-Winter, the grizzled old soldier and new Jarl of Windhelm, dressed in a deep blue set of robes, was the first to greet him properly, walking over to the embarrassed Imperial and shaking his hand firmly.

"It is good to see you again, Lucius," Brunwulf said with a smile, but there was sadness in his grey eyes. "I only wish that this meeting could have been under friendlier circumstances. Come, we will find a seat for you and-"

"Prince Mirtil of the Snow Elves. Last of his line and ruler of what remains of our once great kingdom. My companion is Knight Paladin Gelebor of the Chanty of Auri-El." The Snow Prince said in a low tone, but every person in the room was silenced at his words.

"Impossible!" shouted Jarl Igmund, his hand going to his sword hilt. "The only 'Snow Elves' are the accursed Falmer! And if you are their ruler, I would be doing all of Skyrim a service by taking that pale head from your scrawny shoulders!"

The Jarl drew his blade with a clatter of metal, and Lucius saw many of the other Jarl's hands go to their weapons, while various soldiers around the room drew their swords.

Then a familiar voice echoed across the room.

"Stop! Sheath your blades! Are you any better than our rage filled ancestors if you strike this Elf down?" Balgruuf said, his face a mask of rage as he walked out from the table and, along with Brunwulf Free-Winter, turned to look at the other Jarls. "You dare turn away a potential ally? If the Dragonborn is willing to trust this Elf to help us, so am I. Proventus! Get these men a place to sit at the table. We're going to need all the help we can get to face this new threat."

In seconds the Jarl's steward had called forth three servants, who quickly set up chairs for the new arrivals. Lucius quickly made his way to his seat, between Jarl Elisif and Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone of Morthal, the two women giving him polite nods as he sat down, Gelebor next to him, whilst Mirtil said something in his own language to the Snow Elf warriors with them, who all quickly moved to the far door as Mirtil sat down between Gelebor and Brunwulf. The old Nord dipped his head respectfully and, to Lucius' surprise, Mirtil returned the gesture, before Balgruuf returned to his own seat and cleared his throat.

"Now that our new arrivals are settled, can we return to business? I trust there will be no more objections to our Snow Elf friends? Now is not the time to ask questions about races returning and, so long as they fight for us, we should leave any questions and…personal grievances," he added with an aside look at Igmund ", at the door. Now, Commander Caius, how many troops do we currently have in Whiterun?"

The balding commander of Whiterun Hold's armies nodded, a fresh sheet of parchment in hand which he read from. "Including the recent group of Snow Elves Legate Lucius brought with him, and not including the column of ten thousand Solitude troops that is currently a few miles from the city gates, there are over sixty thousand regular men-at-arms and archers in the city. Markarth has pledged another five hundred crossbowmen to our cause, and Jarl Igmund informs me that they will arrive from the Reach in the next few days. Our native Whiterun light cavalry divisions are still training with Legate Erik's Imperial heavy cavalry near Rorikstead, but a messenger hawk was dispatched from there yesterday to inform us they are on their way."

"What about our specialised units?" Balgruuf asked, and Caius continued.

"The two hundred tribal Orc infantry and one hundred Giants are still quartered to the north of the city but todays combined training with our own troops seems to have gone well and I believe the Giants may prove an effective counter to the Centurion automatons of the Dwemer. As for other units, Jarl Siddgeir informs me that a column of newly constructed siege weaponry is being brought up from Falkreath. One hundred individual pieces, mainly catapults and rams, but at least ten trebuchets, with enough materials to construct another twenty pieces should the need arise. All things considered, the muster has gone exceedingly well."

"Have there been any problems so far?" Lucius asked, and Caius frowned, before nodding.

"It appears that some of our gracious lords have not committed as many men as they could…" he said with barely contained frustration, shooting a glare at Maven Black-Briar, the haughty Jarl of Riften. Maven appeared unmoved and shrugged, but then Balgruuf stood up, his voice firm as he spoke.

"Is this true Maven?"

"Not entirely, my lord." She said casually. "Riften sits barely fifty miles from the border with Morrowind. Should the Dwemer attack I will need as many troops as I can get to defend the border and the city."

At the Jarl's words Brunwulf laughed out loud, and, ignoring Maven's dark look, began to speak.

"I believe our esteemed friend is exaggerating, my lord. Windhelm is also close to the Morrowind border, closer actually, and I have still mustered all the provinces' troops except for my own city's garrison. I…"

"Really Brunwulf?" Maven shot back with a look of controlled anger on her face. "The walls of Windhelm are over twenty metres high! You sit upon one of the most defensible locations in Skyrim! Maybe if you run out of soldiers you could always release those Stormcloak prisoners you have beneath your keep?" she added with a slight smirk.

Lucius cringed at Maven's words. He knew that she was right, in a way. Himself and Brunwulf had kept a few hundred Stormcloak soldiers, those too committed to Ulfric's cause to return to their old lives, imprisoned beneath the Palace of the Kings, and it was almost a taboo subject to speak about them.

"Enough!" Balgruuf ordered, slamming a fist down on the table. "This bickering will get us nowhere. Maven, I expect another thousand troops to leave Riften as soon as possible and report here. If it comes down to it, your friends in the Ratway can always defend your city for you," He added with a slight smile, and a ripple of laughter from the other Jarls burst out until the High King raised a hand for silence. "Now, we should probably hear the story from the Dragonborn. We can discuss numbers and logistics any time. Personally I want to know where you disappeared to when you were leading the first of Jarl Igmund's troops here. And where did you find your new Snow Elf friends?"

Lucius nodded slowly as he stood up to speak, taking a deep breath as he looked at the Jarls and various commanders around the table, all looking on expectantly as he began to speak.

"I-I had a dream the night we camped in the Giant stronghold, a prophetic one," he added as some of the onlookers gave him confused looks. "I was approached by the Daedric Princes, all sixteen of them. They revealed to me that it was they who had imprisoned the Dwemer for thousands of years, tortured them and attempted to exact retribution for whatever strange experiments they were performing at Red Mountain."

At the mention of the Daedra many of the assembled men and women leaned in closer to hear Lucius continue, and he tried to fight off the waves of anxiety that coursed through him. He had never been a good public speaker.

"When I refused to help them, I was saved from their wrath by Akatosh himself, the Chief Divine, but the Daedra swore they would fight the Dwemer themselves, and wipe them from existence."

"Perfect!" shouted Jarl Igmund, slamming a hand down on the table to emphasise his point. "If the Daedra wish to fight the Dwemer, why don't we let them? Surely their metal automatons and fancy weapons are no match for all the horrors of Oblivion?"

"No!" Lucius replied, much louder than he wished to, and he quickly lowered his voice in respect. "When Akatosh spoke to me, he talked of the balance that must be maintained, between the realms of Oblivion and Mundus. We cannot let the Daedra destroy the Dwemer, or for the Dwemer to exact revenge for their imprisonment. You all remember the tales of the Oblivion Crisis? Then it was only one Daedric Prince making war on Tamriel. What kind of chaos and untold destruction will be inflicted on our world if we allow all sixteen of them to descend to this plane of existence? And what kind of chaos would allowing the Dwemer to destroy some of the most powerful beings in existence bring forth?"

But the Jarl of the Reach shook his head and frowned.

"I still don't understand your point Dragonborn. I can understand why not letting the Daedra destroy the Dwemer is good. Where would they stop after that? Destroying all of Tamriel? But why not just let the Dwemer wipe the Daedra off the face of existence? The Daedra have brought nothing but death and chaos to this world."

Lucius nodded. He could see the Jarl's point. But Akatosh had been adamant. And yet many of the people around the table now looked upon him as if he was speaking nonsense, and he sat back in his chair, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get through to them.

Suddenly there was the clatter of a door being slammed shut, and a voice rang out over the muttered comments from the assembled leaders, a piercing female voice with a faint Breton accent.

"My lords! The Dragonborn is right!"

As one every man and woman at the table turned to their right where the newcomer had just entered from the court wizards quarters. The new arrival was a Breton, dressed in the grey and white robes of a Vigilant of Stendaar, her face hard and unyielding but still good looking in the same manner of a Nordic shield-maiden. Her long brown hair was tied up in a tight bun and at her hip was a glass mace. Bowing towards the table, she gestured towards herself with hands sheathed in steel plate gauntlets.

"My name is Vigilant Arianna of the Vigilance of Stendaar, sent by the Vigilance from the newly rebuilt Hall of the Vigilant. I am sorry to disturb your meeting. I was merely meeting with the High King's court wizard when I heard the Dragonborn mentioning the balance of the world and the Daedra."

A few of the Jarls looked about to protest at this interruption but Balgruuf raised a hand.

"Speak, Vigilant." He said, firmly but not unkindly. "I trust your own knowledge on the Daedra includes this 'balance'."

Arianna nodded. "I have based my whole career as a Vigilant on not only understanding ways of fighting the Daedra, but also their role in the world and what exactly they are. Know thy enemy, I believe the phrase is. My lords, the Dragonborn speaks the truth," she added as she came to the table, taking a smooth stone from her pocket as she did so and placing it on the table.

"Look at that. It's nothing but a stone I found in the road on the way here. And yet it shows exactly the make-up of this world, this existence. You all see the stone I trust? Look closer. There is a shadow. Stop me if I'm going too fast…" she added with a slight grin as some of the Jarls looked on dumbfounded. "Our world is the same. On the one hand we have the light. We have the Divines, who represent order, justice and freedom. And yet on the other we have the darkness, the Daedra, chaos, tyranny and destruction. Neither can exist without the other. For what is the point of justice if there are no criminals to try? What is the point of destruction if there is no established order to destroy? Many members of my order delude themselves, say that the Daedra must be wiped from existence. And yet I know better. The Dragonborn speaks of a balance that must be maintained. He is right. There cannot be light if there is no shadow for it to chase away." she added but, noticing the still unsure faces of those around the table, continued.

"Look." She began, pointing at the map of Skyrim. "Let me break this down into something a bit simpler than the fate of all creation. Jarl Igmund, what would happen to Skyrim if you were to march on Morthal, burn it to the ground, and wipe that city off the map?"

The eyes of every person around the table seemed to all widen in shock simultaneously, and Jarl Idgrod looked both terrified and angered at Arianna's words. Even Lucius was slightly shocked at her words. The Vigilant had barely been there a few minutes and was already speaking directly to the Jarls as if they were schoolchildren. But Arianna ignored the astonished stares and only stared at Igmund, waiting for the headstrong Jarl's answer.

"Well…" the Jarl began. "Morthal is the base for the Watchmen of the Marsh. If I…wiped it out, then the monsters from the marshes, the Chaurus and the vampires, the Falmer tribes," he added with a slight glance at Prince Mirtil. "They would overrun the Hold, probably spread into the Pale and Whiterun Holds as well."

"See?" Arianna said with a smile. "And what if, say, Jarl Elisif was to invade the Reach and destroy Markarth?"

"Skyrim would lose most of its industry, its mines and its best blacksmiths. The material economy would grind to a halt." Igmund replied shortly, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

Lucius smiled. He could see his point was sinking in to the assembled Jarls and military commanders, and was glad that Arianna had turned up. The Vigilant nodded at him and he stood up and began to speak again. "If we lose the Daedra we lose the tenuous balance that keeps the world together. Much as in the same way that losing one Hold in Skyrim would bring chaos, even losing one of the Daedric Princes to the Dwemer would bring untold chaos to the world. I know it seems wrong but we have to be pragmatic here…"

As he said this Balgruuf, Elisif and Brunwulf all nodded, and Igmund began to speak.

"You speak the truth Dragonborn. If Akatosh himself told you this, who are we to disagree?"

A chorus of cheers ran around the table as Balgruuf stood up, raising a hand for calm.

"My friends." The High King said in a loud but even tone. "We Nords are a proud and honourable race. However for many years we have had a reputation as being as hard and, dare I say, outright inhospitable and cold, as the rocky crags of our homeland. The Snow Prince before us, the descendant of a race our ancestors attempted to destroy, is proof of how we Nords have not always been the heroes. Now is our chance to do that. For what is nobler than helping to keep the world from slipping into untold chaos. But now we can prove to the world we are not dumb brutes! Alongside our brothers in arms from the Empire, we will be-"

His last words were cut off as the main doors at the far end of the hall were thrown open and a messenger dressed in light Imperial armour sprinted in, pushing past the guards who tried to stop him before halting at the far end of the table, every eye in the room on him.

"My lords!" he shouted in-between deep breaths. He looked like he had run all the way from the camps outside the city. "A messenger hawk has arrived from Morrowind-from General Tullius!"

A collective intake of breath seemed to ripple across the various guards and scribes around the room, but most of the Jarls seemed to take the news in stunned silence. Nobody had heard from the general since the battle at Red Mountain, and Lucius was sure he had died.

"The Dwemer have advanced into Vvardenfell from Red Mountain. The information we received from Calcelmo of Markarth was right…" the messenger said, rushing his words as if the message couldn't wait another second. "The old veteran units have returned. The general mentioned Dwemer warriors led by a commander called Cuolec the Red."

"Cuolec the Red?!" shouted Prince Mirtil, kicking his seat out from under him as he stood up, his hand going to his sword as if the Dwemer was in the room with them. "Are you sure, soldier?"

"Yes I-"the messenger spluttered, not sure what to think of the pale white Elf before him but the prince cut him off.

"That…monster, butchered countless numbers of my brethren during the War of the Crag, back before their minds were entirely lost to the toxic fungus. We were right to come here. Maybe now my people can have revenge on the Dwemer." He added in a softer voice, one that sounded much more uncertain than his previous bluster and harsh words.

As the prince sat down the messenger breathed a noticeable sigh of relief before he continued.

"The general has taken the few remains of the Fifth Legion and is heading for the mainland."

"Then there is no time to lose." Balgruuf said with a grim frown. "We need our troops ready as soon as possible. Proventus! Send a message to Legate Fasendil and his troops on the border. Tell him we are sending aid. I will have a force of five thousand men at arms and five hundred archers on their way to both of the main passes to Morrowind within the hour. Tell them to set up palisades and dig trenches along the roads to slow any enemy advance. We need to fortify the border before the Dwemer arrive."

The High King's steward bowed before hurrying out, grabbing a quill and parchment off a nearby scribe.

"As for you soldier." Balgruuf said in a softer tone. "Get yourself back to the camps. I will be sending another messenger shortly."

As the soldier turned to leave, the High King picked up a bottle of Black-Briar mead from the table and threw it to the weary messenger, who caught it and bowed.

"For your trouble, lad." Balgruuf said simply. "It's never easy being the bearer of bad news."

The messenger ran out of the room, a broad grin on his face, and the High King turned back to the assembled leaders, sighing deeply.

"Now we must turn to-"

Just as he began speaking the main doors were hauled open again and the patter of light feet on polished floorboards filled the air. The High King sighed again, taking the proffered parchment from the new messenger and opening it out.

Lucius saw the Balgruuf's eyes widen slightly and knew instantly that this was more bad news.

The High King shook his head and let the parchment fall to the table as he spoke again, any previous mirth replaced by a grim and cold acceptance of whatever the message had said.

"My friends. We have just received word from Imperial scouts in southern Morrowind. Lord Naarfiin has been sighted at the head of an army of sixty thousand Dominion troops and twenty thousand Argonian soldiers from the heart of Black Marsh. They are marching through Imperial lands as we speak."

He paused for a second, letting the meaning of his words sink in before he said grimly.

"Make no mistake. The Thalmor have returned, and they're not going away lightly this time."


	13. Chapter 13- Army of Moonstone and Ebony

Dawn was rising over the desolate ash plains of southern Morrowind as the armies of the Dominion marched to battle.

Trailing across the grey landscape were countless High Elven troops marching in large formations, their green armour glittering in the pale sun and their shields and blades clattering as they walked. Here and there rode columns of cavalry with long spears and small formations of Bosmer archers and battlemages, ready to support the larger infantry blocks when needed. Alongside the humanoid Elves came lines of Khajiit skirmishers, supplementing their races weak bodies and poor magical ability with deadly light troops and close combat warriors.

The sky crackled with magical energy as the Dominion's troops marched, the effect of over fifty thousand magically attuned Elves being in such close proximity producing slight ripples in the air and brief flashes of impossibly bright light. Here and there a tiny spark of magicka rippled across the tightly packed Elven troops, bouncing off spear tips and armour plating like will-o'-the wisps.

Alongside the thousands of Elven troops came a smaller, but just as formidable, force of twenty thousand Argonian warriors from the heart of Black Marsh. In direct contrast to the elegant Elven forces, the Argonians moved in one long unbroken column across the plains. Outfitted in armour made from cotton soaked in the swamp waters of Black Marsh until it was as hard as iron and carved wooden helmets made from the bark of Hist trees and bedecked with plumes of bright flowers and reeds, the Argonians made for a strange match to their Elven allies. Their weapons were long iron clubs studded with blocks of ebony or long ebony tipped spears and hard wooden shields painted with incomprehensible symbols and markings. At the head of the column came a large block of scouts and light troops equipped with bows and ebony daggers, the scouts staying close to the ground in a half crouched state, their eyes and ears alert for anything. And at the rear of the Argonian column came a small group of hulking Naga, a hundred towering creatures that resembled reptilian giants, their faces like those of snakes and their broad bodies adorned with tribal war paint. Clad in crudely fashioned plates of iron and ebony the Naga slowly marched forward, in their clawed hands huge clubs studded with ebony.

Lord Naarfiin, commander of the 3rd Thalmor Expeditionary Force and overall High Commander of all Dominion invasion forces rode deep within the heart of the army alongside Bleeds-Men-Dry, the general of the Argonian contingent. The two warriors were almost complete opposites. Naarfiin was tall and elegant, his handsome features and flowing white hair giving him a regal edge, while his distinctive deep green glass armour, finished with a long black cloak, made him stand out amongst his plainly adorned retinue of bodyguards, aides, officers and standard bearers, all riding atop sleek armoured warhorses. The Argonian couldn't have been any more different. The general was stocky and broad, his powerful upper body seeming to be barely contained by the thick set of hard cotton armour he wore, a heavy ebony axe clutched in one clenched fist. His mount was a monstrous alligator, the beast unarmoured except for the natural green scales across its entire body. The Argonian general looked up at Naarfiin, his shovel shaped head, adorned with an impressive set of four curled horns, framing a face set in a grim smile.

"It feels good to chase down some more Dunmer scum." He said in his croaking voice, his laugh a rumbling cackle. "But my warriors grow restless Naarfiin. They are still unsure outside of Argonia. They miss the shade of the trees and the safe enclosed forests."

Naarfiin shook his head, his deep golden eyes gazing towards the north and beyond, his skin seeming to blister slightly in the bright sunlight.

"Patience, Bleeds-Men-Dry." He inwardly sighed as he said the general's name. It may have sounded formidable but it was a mouthful to pronounce the Argonian's full name. He had tried just referring to him as 'the general' to save time. "With the Dwemer's return we shall most likely run into some Dunmer refugees for your men to sate your bloodlust on."

"No," the Argonian said firmly. "Refugees are for bandits and raiders to try their luck on. My men and I fight with honour against worthy opponents."

"Didn't stop you during your invasion of Morrowind." Naarfiin shot back and Bleeds-Men-Dry paused.

"That was a different time. A different war," The general replied simply. "However I do look forward to testing our forces against those of the Dwemer. I heard your 'elite' troops were soundly decimated by the Legion even before the Dwarves arrived." He added with a slight smile and, surprisingly, the High Elf smiled also.

"Ondolemar was a fool. The poor wretch couldn't command an army to save his life."

"And yet you sent him against Tullius' Fifth Legion? And the Dragonborn?"

Naarfiin smiled slightly. "Sometimes fathers have to be hard on their children to truly see them prosper. If he dies, he died fighting for the Dominion. If my idiot of a son survived, well, we will soon find out when we hunt down Tullius' forces."

The Argonian general frowned and gave Naarfiin a quizzical look.

"You mean we aren't fighting against the Dwemer?"

For the past few days groups of Dominion soldiers, battered and defeated, had been trickling out from Morrowind. When Naarfinn's scouts had tried to get any kind of information from them most had just babbled about 'the Golden Horde' and how the Dwemer were wiping out any army that stood against them. Naarfiin had hanged most of them as an example to the troops for what happened to deserters.

"No," Naarfiin replied shortly, and the Argonian gave him a puzzled look.

"Why not?!" he shot back. "Do you not believe your own troops?"

The Altmer nodded solemnly. "Of course I do. But I am not willing to throw my soldiers' lives away against a peoples who have already caused us so much pain…"

"What do you mean you melodramatic fool?" The Argonian was not one to mince his words. "My scholars have informed me that the only ones who would have any kind of memory of the Dwemer, from their ancestors, would be the Nords, Bretons and Redguards of Hammerfell. And of course…" he added with a dark look. "The Dunmer."

Naarfiin smirked. "The Altmer are a much longer lived race than those pitiful creatures. We never faced the Dwemer themselves, that is true. But there are, or at least were until a few years back, still survivors of Tiber Septim's fifteen minute siege of Summerset Isle. I have spoken to those ancient Mer and heard their tales of the Numidium, the one hundred foot high golem, what some of our more scholarly comrades call 'Walk-Brass' and of how it destroyed our greatest armies in mere minutes. If what they say was correct, it was able to warp time and space around itself, creating a barrier that no arrow or spell could pierce, and use it as a weapon even our strongest warriors could not withstand."

The Altmer general turned to look out over the vast army beyond.

"That is why I will not face the Dwemer in open combat. Who knows what vile machines and weapons of war they possess? No. We will wait until the Dwemer and the Empire have broken each other. Then…then the Third Aldmeri Dominion will take what is rightfully ours."

000000

As night fell the vast Dominion and Argonian armies set up camp, erecting in barely an hour a small city of green silk tents, open stables and a ring of watchtowers and defensive palisades. Outside the thick palisades of the main Altmer camp were those of the Bosmer and Khajiit, the Wood Elves setting up their own camp using magically altered trees and the Khajiit making do with a rough camp of animal skin tents and paper lanterns at the very fringes of the campsite. The entire camp was filled with the sounds of patrolling sentries and glow of countless cook fires and forges, the baleful glow of Magelights giving much of the camp an eerie tint as it reflected off stacks of weaponry and razor sharp glass.

At the very centre of the camp rose a low hill of grey rock and even greyer ash, the tents and pavilions of the Altmer officers ringed by stout palisade walls standing at the summit. Around the torch fires patrolled dozens of elite Dominion battlemages and the Chosen of Trinimac, the veteran bodyguards of the various officers and commanders of the huge army.

Lord Naarfiin's huge pavilion dominated the very top of the ash strewn hill, a towering green tower of silk and fabric, covered in campaign ribbons, pennants and the fluttering forms of dozens of green and black flags.

And yet inside, compared to the bright exterior, was almost tomb-like, lit only by a few small Magelights floating above bowls of magical fluid, the shadows seeming to ensnare the Altmer general as he walked inside. Breathing a deep sigh of relief Lord Naarfiin removed his armour, setting the glass breastplate, gauntlets and greaves on a mannequin in the corner, unbuckling his sword belt and leaving the blade within easy reach as he settled down into his chair. It was only now, in the cool solitude of his tent, knowing that the nearest company was the squad of Chosen of Trinimac patrolling outside, that he was finally able to be himself.

Blinking his golden eyes in the gloom, Naarfiin breathed deeply, allowing the various charms and illusions around his body to dissipate, leaving his skin deathly pale and his face growing more drawn and corpse-like as the glamours faded away.

Finally, once his appearance had taken on that of a long dead corpse, did he remove the strip of fabric around his neck to reveal the horrific red wound that crossed his throat from ear to ear. The wound from the week long hanging that had been his punishment after his defeat during the Great War-when Emperor Titus Mede the 2nd retook the Imperial City.

He closed his eyes, feeling a slight sense of pleasure as two needle sharp fangs sprang from his gums, the charms that hid them no longer needed.

It was only when the vampiric High Commander of all the Dominion's invasion forces closed his eyes, his super enhanced hearing telling him he was very much alone, that he dropped his guard and allowed his thoughts to wander as he began to think back to that fateful day. The day when the Great War ended. The day he died.

_Naarfiin opened his eyes. His entire body felt as if it was on fire, felt like every muscle and bone was being ripped apart. It was only as his vision began to clear and he looked out at the view that his brain finally brought back the memory of why he was here, a hundred metres above the ground, with a rope around his neck._

_When the Imperial Legions led by General Tullius and Titus Mede the 2__nd__ had broken his armies in the Battle of the Red Ring, they had stormed the gates of the Imperial City. The weak defences of the Elves had easily broken. They had barely cleared out the bodies of the destroyed Imperial 8__th__ Legion before Titus Mede had led the Firstborn cavalry straight through the gates, the Emperor wielding the glittering sword Goldbrand as they cut a bloody swathe through the defenders. When the Imperials had found Naarfiin, fighting a doomed defence of the Arcane University alongside a hundred battlemages and a mere dozen bodyguards, they had dragged his beaten body up every step of the recaptured White Gold Tower and hung him from the very top level._

_Below him sprawled the faded majesty of the Imperial City- seat of countless dynasties of both Human and Elven kings and emperors. The ancient Ayelid walls were just visible in the distance, the ordered sprawl of countless square miles of commercial buildings, government offices and houses far below him and visible in all directions. Columns of black smoke and tongues of flame rippled out from countless destroyed buildings, while armoured columns of Legionnaires and the remnants of the Dominion's armies battled it out in the streets below. The clash of blades and screams of the dead and dying filled the air._

_It would have been almost beautiful for Naarfiin, had there not been the constant sensation of being about to fall, and the rope still digging into the flesh on his neck. It was taking every ounce of his prodigious magical ability to stop his neck from snapping, diverting every single shred of his magicka reserves to levitate himself mere millimetres from the coarse rope. It kept him alive, but the rough hemp still tore into his pale throat regardless._

_Thirty four days later and his last drops of magicka were slipping away, every last tiny bit of energy coaxed out of his emaciated and near frozen frame. The Altmer's once fine robes were streaked with blood and his own vomit and waste, his glass armour beginning to crack from a combination of the intense cold and the strain._

_He blinked his pale gold eyes one last time, knowing that his view of the Imperial City below, with black and red banners fluttering from every rooftop and victory celebrations still ongoing, would be the last thing he saw before his soul departed into Aetherius._

_Suddenly he felt a presence besides his own, and, before his rapidly closing eyes, a figure began to appear and suddenly everything seemed to stop. Down below the fires were frozen in place, the hordes of people celebrating as still as statues, and the clouds overhead had ceased their endless march across the sky. Time itself had stopped._

_Hovering in thin air with all the ease of someone standing upon solid ground, the figure was a shifting mass of tattered grey robes, at least five metres tall. Its arms were grey skinned and ended in long black claws, and even beneath the thick robes it was obviously very muscular and broad. The figures face however was the most monstrous part of it. Two white horns sprung from where its ears would have been and the figure's mouth was a mass of sharp white teeth, many cracked or broken off, giving its smile an eerie edge. But its eyes were the most horrific part of it. Twin pools of inky blackness, Naarfiin could see no emotion in them beyond hate and a will to dominate all life._

"_**I am Molog Bal, Prince of Domination and Enslavement and the God of Brutality." **__the figure declared in a voice so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, spreading its two huge arms wide in a gesture of mock courtesy. __**"And you, Lord Naarfiin, are a second away from death." **__The Daedric Prince added._

_If the Altmer could have gone any paler from the shock of being in the presence of a Daedric Prince, he would have. Although the Altmer of Summerset Isle were, like their Ayelid cousins, worshipers of both Aedra and Daedra, the general was still deathly afraid of the Daedra, and knew not to believe anything they said or accept any bargains they made._

"_What do you wish from me, my lord?" Naarfiin spluttered. He could no longer feel the rope swaying in the wind, or the rough feel of it on his neck, but even so he was still nearly dead._

_The Daedric Prince laughed. __**"Much as I would wish to watch you expire on this noose like a fish gutted on a line, I have need of your loyalty."**_

"_What do you want from me, my lord?"_

_The monstrous figure gritted his teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile. _

"_**Finally. Someone who understands his need to submit to my will and doesn't try to feebly resists my dominion. I demand your services. Pledge yourself to me and I will take you from this place."**_

"_And if I refuse?" Naarfiin said defiantly._

_The Prince's smile grew even wider, and suddenly Naarfiin heard the snapping of rope from above him._

"_**I have severed the rope above your head, mortal. When I release you from this time lock in the next five seconds, you will plunge to the earth. But I will make it so that to you it feels like you are falling for eternity. And when you submit to the grounds hard embrace, all the tortures of Coldharbour will be unleashed upon your broken body."**_

_Naarfiin's eyes widened even more and he quickly spluttered out an apology._

"_I submit my lord. I submit!"_

"_**They all do in the end." **__The Prince replied darkly. __**"I will bestow on you the power of the night. You will be like a god to the weak masses of mortals. You will no longer fear death, and all the prayers of the unbelievers will not save them from your claws and teeth. Submit to me, and lesser undead will look upon you as a king. You will lead my armies and further my interests in Tamriel. Submit to me and you will aid in the search for my champion amongst the races of Men and Mer."**_

_The Altmer nodded, ignoring the coarse rope on his throat. The thought of having such power, of being able to wreak vengeance on those who had strung him up as a trophy, was too much to pass up._

"_I submit." _

"_**They always do." **__Molog Bal said and laughed as he shimmered out of existence._

_Next thing Naarfiin knew, the rope above his head had snapped and he was freefalling towards the city far below. The last thing he remembered was the firm embrace of a winged creature that bore him away from the Imperial City, and the cold feeling of teeth biting into his neck._

Lord Naarfiin awoke with a jolt as he heard the footfalls of a messenger approaching the door of his tent.

Instantly he stood up, pulling his undershirt around him as he quickly recast all the glamours he had taken off, feeling a warm glow as colour returned to his cheeks and the sharp pain of his fangs sliding back into place.

By the time the messenger pushed through the tent flaps, two Chosen of Trinimac in glittering glass plate armour at his side, Naarfiin was ready to face them. A long black cloak wrapped around himself, the general stared at the messenger, a small Bosmer woman clad in leather armour and a thin green cape.

"My lord." She stuttered, bowing low. "Commander Daerthil asked me to inform you our scouts have captured some enemy outriders. What do you wish to be done with them?"

"Hang them all." Naarfiin replied bluntly. "Put their bodies on the carts with the other dead. When we assault Mournhold I think the Imperials will appreciate us returning their comrades to them…" he added with a grim smile.

The messenger nodded and bowed again but, just as the Bosmer and the two guards went to leave, Naarfiin raised a hand.

"Send their commander to me though. I wish to interrogate him myself."

"It will be done my lord. We will fetch him from the prison immediately."

Naarfiin smiled as they left. He left the glamours in place this time, just in case they returned ahead of schedule.

He was just about to settle into his chair once again when he felt a familiar presence begin to slip into the confines of the tent, and saw dark tendrils of blackest shadow creeping out from every corner.

"My lord-"he began, but was suddenly forced to the floor by an unbearable pain in very part of his body.

"_Submit, mortal." _A familiar voice said in his head, seeming to echo in every part of his mind.

"Molog Bal. My lord. What do you…wish of me?" Naarfiin said despite the agony he felt in every last part of his body.

"_I have need of you, mortal." _The Daedric Prince said, and Naarfiin slowly got to his feet, his limbs shaking as the last of the pain began it subside.

"_Did I instruct you to rise?" _Molog Bal shouted in Naarfiin's head, and the Altmer felt a supernatural force throw him to his knees.

"_Mortal. Now is the time for you to deliver on your side of our agreement. I have still not found myself a worthy champion, so this task must fall on you."_

Naarfiin's heart would have leapt if it was not a necrotic lump of useless flesh.

"Am I to be your champion?" he asked, and instantly was thrown across the room, his head slamming into the hard ground beneath the expensive silk carpets.

"_You are unworthy to be my champion, mortal." _The Daedric Prince replied with a callous laugh. _"But I do indeed have a task for you to perform until I have found myself a true champion."_

"What would you have me do?"

If the Daedric Prince appreciated Naarfiin's humility, he didn't show it as he began to speak, but the pain coursing through the Altmer began to fade away.

"_The Dwemer have returned to Tamriel, as you know. I and the other Daedric Princes, barring a few cowards amongst our ranks, stand ready to wipe them from the face of existence for good. Their heresy against us cannot go unpunished. We are assembling an army as we speak. But my own vampiric legions are much depleted ever since the Dawnguard and Vigilance of Stendaar began their recent crusade against them. If I am to maintain my dominance over the lesser Princes, I need an army to aid in the assault on the Dwemer, and of course, to crush my rival's forces once they are defeated."_

Naarfiin kept a subservient face, but inside he was tingling with barely held excitement and awe. He had been entrusted by Molog Bal himself to lead his army into battle against the Dwemer!

"It will be done my lord." He said.

"_Don't disappoint me." _The Daedra replied simply, before the shadows around the tent, and the presence in Naarfiin's mind, all disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

The Altmer had only just got to his feet when two Chosen of Trinimac entered the tent, dragging a battered looking Imperial officer between them. Throwing the small man to the hard floor, the two guards bowed low.

"Leave us." Naarfiin commanded and the two Elven warriors instantly left, leaving him and the prisoner alone.

"I will tell you nothing, Elven filth!" the Imperial spat, and Naarfiin only shook his head.

"As if I would be so uncouth as to torture you, my friend."

"I am not your friend!" the officer shot back, his tanned face set in a frown, sweat beading on his forehead as Naarfiin turned away.

"Come." He said genially. "Sit with me and we'll talk. I have a crate of Argonian Redwine that needs drinking before we set off tomorrow. Care to join me?"

The Imperial looked more confused than angry, but obediently followed the Altmer as the general motioned for him to sit down in an elegant wooden chair opposite his own.

"Let me just get the wine." Naarfiin said with a smile, moving behind the Imperial, who absently looked down at his feet, as if ashamed of turning up to such an opulent tent in nothing but a ragged red uniform.

The Imperial began humming a tune as Naarfiin stood by the small drinks cabinet.

"I recognise that tune." The Elf said with a smile. "'Dusk on Anvil Harbour', right?"

The Imperial laughed, seeming to begin to rsut the Altmer a bit more. "I'm surprised someone like you would know it. It's a favourite of my children. Right now I would be singing them the full song as I put them to bed. When I get back home I'll definitely sing it again. I would never forget the words…" he added with a soft laugh.

"Oh don't worry." Naarfiin said as he turned away from the drinks cabinet. "I'm sure you'll see your children soon enough…"

As he said this his fangs slid into place and a small set of claws sprang out on his hands as he placed them on the Imperial's shoulders.

The Imperial was still humming the song for his children as Naarfiin sank his fangs into the man's neck.


	14. Chapter 14- The Black Prince

Queen Anihata the Immaculate sat in state atop the Gilded Throne of Red Mountain, the vast magnificence of the throne room stretching out before her. The mile long chamber constructed of chiselled stone and the smooth red rock that gave the mountain its name was almost empty. Lit from above by dozens of giant infinite candle chandeliers and with golden braziers jutting out from every one of the towering stone pillars that lined the room, the throne room was the size of a small town.

The only other occupants of the room were a few dozen Guard of Kemel Ze, one by each pillar and a small group of Tonal Architects scurrying around an ornate golden archway at the far end of the room-one of the Dwemer's advanced Tonal Bridges. In any other room the amount of guards and attendants would have made the place seem as crowded as the Imperial City, but in such a vast open space, Anihata was almost alone atop the dais.

The High Queen was dressed in a flowing robe of bright purple, a courtesy on her part out of respect for the Tonal Architects working away at the far end of the chamber. Around her chest and arms were the golden bands of her ceremonial armour, two wide bladed daggers sheathed at her narrow hips and a delicate crown of gold and Dwarven metal atop her long black hair. If anything, she thought to herself, she was underdressed.

She still remembered the majesty of this throne room when King Dumac had been ruler. Back then every pillar had been adorned with silk banners and the chamber had resounded with the noise of countless individual conversations on everything from science and engineering to the best way to distil mead as dozens of Dwemer nobles and commoners milled about. Long rows of tables and chairs to the sides played host to banquets and feasts of all kinds, while the entire route from the King's throne to the doors at the far end of the room had been lined with elite Dwemer warriors in glittering armour. All of that was gone now. No more laughter echoed in that chamber, and there were no feasts or festivities any more.

"Dumac is gone now," she said quietly to herself as she tried to make herself comfortable on the hard stone throne. "Nothing will ever bring him back."

It had been during the battles of Hircine's Hunting Grounds that Anihata had seen Dumac fall. When the werebeasts led by Romulus Fenrir himself, the King of Werewolves, had broken through the Dwemer lines after days of almost nonstop battle, it had been Dumac and his Brass Men who had led the charge. With Cuolec the Red at his side Dumac had carved a bloody swathe through the hordes of werebeasts. But Anihata still remembered seeing him fall. Even though she was deployed back with the rear guard, she had watched in horror as Dumac had charged Romulus Fenrir, his greatsword held high. The werewolf had almost casually batted him aside, swatting him away with one sweep of his huge arms. She had seen Cuolec rush forward and slash his sword across the werewolf's chest, but the monster had easily thrown him aside, raking a blood-stained claw across the brave Dwemer's face and leaving him howling in agony. The King of Werewolves had then, after tearing through the Brass Men in seconds, picked Dumac's broken form up in a firm grip and, with a howl of triumph, torn the noble Dwemer king in half, spattering the defeated form of Cuolec in a shower of bright crimson.

She shook herself slightly, trying not to think back to those dark times, when the Dwemer had seemed close to extinction, with their rulers all systematically hunted down and tortured by the Daedra, and the Five Councils cowering in fear and useless. When she had marched into the crude chamber of the Council of Masters, little more than a cave crudely hacked into a hillside in the Hunting Grounds, with the Guard of Kemel Ze at her back, the ancient Dwemer leaders had bowed before her in seconds, proclaiming her High Queen as they stared at the spears levelled at them.

Anihata took a deep breath, shaking her head slightly before absently picking up the golden form of the lexicon divination cube that sat on the arm of her throne. Balancing the fist sized cube in the palm of her hand, she looked over it for a second, running her gloved fingers across the delicate grooves and intricate carvings in its otherwise smooth metal surface. Her parents had both been involved heavily in this kind of technology, with her mother being a Tonal Architect, her father a respected craftsman and artisan. Part of her still wished to follow in their footsteps, but circumstances had stopped that dream from being anything but a fantasy.

She moved her fingers across the cube one last time before placing it in the small lexicon receptacle built into the right arm of the throne. The cube set into the carved stone and metal plinth with a soft metallic click, the sides instantly hovering off in a small field of blue and white light, revealing a glowing hexagonal centre.

"Now for the hard part." She said to herself, closing her eyes and opening her mind to the innate physic ability all Dwemer had- the Calling.

For a second she felt myriad thoughts and feelings from other Dwemer filling her head. One second she was feeling the pain of a warrior on some distant battlefield, the next the confused thoughts of an engineer deep in thought and then what felt like the thoughts of Lord Kagrenac himself as the ancient Dwemer busied himself with a complex string of calculations. Instantly she felt herself being dragged away from the random thoughts of other Dwemer, as she finally focused herself on the lexicon, allowing the advanced technology within to anchor her own thoughts on the lexicons energy.

When she opened her eyes she felt various different images at the back of her mind, all gathered by the lexicon ready for her to review. She focused her mind, breathing in deeply like Lord Kagrenac had taught her, then, with a thought, selected the first of the images.

Instantly she was looking down on the plains of Vvardenfell, watching as a long column of Dwemer warriors and automatons marched down a wide Imperial-made road. The sun shone on their golden armour and weaponry as Anihata watched from above like some omniscient god. Behind the soldiers trailed hundreds of prisoners, mainly grey skinned Dunmer but also scores of defeated Imperial soldiers and hulking Nords with bowed heads.

As she watched the prisoners marching in sullen silence, groups of Dwemer on automaton mounts watching over them with spears at the ready, she cast her mental gaze out over the shifting hills of ash and burnt trees beyond, along with the empty shells of ruined Dwemer buildings. She remembered when this had all been lush farmland and open countryside, when the fields had been filled with farming automatons and their masters tilling the crops and tending their herds of livestock. Now that was all gone, replaced with a desert of grey ash and dead towns, here and there a few pockets of civilisation behind high walls or in near desolate plots of farmland.

Suddenly there was the blaring howl of a war horn and the battle cries of what sounded like hundreds of Dunmer and, like a wave of vengeance, a horde of Dunmer and a few scattered Imperials, armed with little more than farming tools and the odd suit of battered armour, rushed the column. With a slight sense of shock, Anihata watched as, from both sides of the road, the hordes of vengeful Dunmer streamed out, men and women dressed in rough farmer's clothes and the odd set of leather or chitin armour.

The Dwemer didn't even flinch. The High Queen felt a slight sense of pride as the Dwemer instantly rushed to ready themselves, the warriors at the edges forming two parallel shield walls of shining bronze to protect the main body of troops while their comrades took up positions behind them.

The Dunmer surged forward, seemingly emboldened by the Dwemer's supposed lack of an aggressive response. The horde was barely ten metres from the column, a few throwing large stones from slings or firing off arrows despite the fact their attacks merely pinged off the dwarves' thick armour. And then, at a signal from the officers scattered throughout the column, the Dwemer warriors opened up with a hail of crossbow bolts and arrows.

With a loud snapping of bones and crunching of flesh, the Dunmer were torn apart, dozens of them going down in seconds. The heavy bolts punched through multiple targets as if they were paper, while others fell to sharp arrows that sent them screaming to the ground. It took mere seconds for the Dunmer to break. These were not warriors, as was obvious by the few that had somehow managed to keep rushing the dwarven shield wall and were easily impaled on bronze sword blades or had their chests crushed by heavy shields.

The High Queen felt no joy as the remaining Dark Elves retreated haphazardly, throwing down their weapons and running as fast as they could. The Dwemer didn't pursue but their archers simply nocked new arrows to their bows and shot the Dunmer down as they ran. At the far end of the column the few brave prisoners who had made a break for freedom were ridden down and impaled on spear tips or shot in the back.

Taking a deep breath Anihata pushed the image out of her mind. She had already known the lack of any real resistance on Vvardenfell besides the odd holdout of Imperials or Redoran troops in their crumbling castles. The Council of Warriors had assured her that the island was almost theirs, and that General Bahrma would soon be leading an army of nearly fifty thousand warriors out to the fringes of the island to secure the ports and harbours for their subsequent amphibious invasion of the mainland.

With the thoughts of the general in her mind, she searched through the myriad images and thoughts the lexicon was streaming into her mind, and mentally selected one of General Bahrma.

She opened her eyes again to see, yet again from a large height, a squat Dwemer fort of stone and bronze, still under construction on the foothills of Red Mountain. The fort was nothing special, a large square of thick stone walls topped with thick battlements and four short towers, the interior courtyard filled with regimented lines of square tents and the odd stone building.

Passing her gaze over the dozens of Dunmer labourers and Dwemer engineers, accompanied by hordes of spider automatons carrying stacks of stone and metal, crawling over every inch of the fort, she found the general by the main gate.

Bahrma stood with his lieutenant, Volendun and about ten others officers and soldiers, around a small map table, evidently deep in discussion. The general, unsurprisingly, didn't look the slightest bit concerned or on edge as he laid out plans and gave orders to various messengers standing by with communication lexicons. The man was obviously in his element. Anihata had always known the general to be a cautious and thoughtful type, much happier directing the armies from behind the lines than leading the charge and grabbing glory for himself. She had been very surprised to hear of his exploits during the battle against House Redoran's forces. Normally he tried to stay as far away from the frontlines as possible, not out of any sense of cowardice- she had heard of his bravery leading a shieldwall many times- but due to a genuine desire to actually direct his forces properly and not let them be killed needlessly while he tried to go for glory himself.

She didn't linger too long on the image of the fort under construction. She had already heard from many advisors and messengers on the state of Red Mountain's defences. If her advisors weren't exaggerating too much, the entire base of the vast volcano was once again protected by the ring of forts and watchtowers that had protected it from the Chimer long ago. Even she had been surprised at the speed of the undertaking, with the Council of Engineers ensuring her that their new models of automatons, and the hundreds of prisoners working as labour, had ensured a fast rate of construction.

For a second her concentration wavered and the images all disappeared into nothingness. She blinked several times, once again the vast throne room spreading out beyond her gaze, before she steeled herself, gritting her teeth slightly and closing her eyes again. Her personal physician had already cautioned her on excessive uses of the divination lexicon, citing the countless cases of Dwemer scholars and Tonal Architects near killing themselves with exhaustion by overstretching their minds or ending up descending into madness from the near overwhelming amount of images the untrained mind was subjected to. The High Queen had been trained in their use long ago, back when she had been the message runner of King Dumac himself in the First Era, but she had her limits as well.

"Just once more." She said to herself, taking another deep breath and selecting another image, this one showing the location of Cuolec the Red.

Instantly she felt the familiar slight tug on her mind, then she was looking down on another undulating plain of grey ash. This one was different though. The skies were choked by black smoke and clouds of ash that had definitely not come from Red Mountain, all focused on the sprawling form of a large town. And yet, as Anihata's gaze grew closer and closer to the town, she had a view of the battle raging within its high walls.

The sounds of screams and cries for mercy filled the air, along with the wet gurgling noises of Dunmer being impaled on sword blades or spear tips. Many of the buildings were wreathed in flame, while the whistling of arrows and crossbow bolts punctuated the clattering of metal and clash of blades.

And at the centre of it all, riding down the wide main street with a blood spattered greatsword in one hand and a battle scarred shield in the other, was Cuolec the Red. His crimson armour had taken on an entirely different hue as Dunmer blood coated very part of it, and his arrogant booming laugh echoed off the curved stone buildings on all sides. Leaning into his saddle, Cuolec raised his sword and cleaved through a shell shocked looking Redoran guard in battered armour, who feebly raised his sword at the Dwemer warrior before falling face first into the dirt, a gaping wound in his back. The corpse had barely been on the ground for a second before a whooping crowd of Riders of Dahaka trampled it into the ground, their mechanical steeds hissing and clanking.

Behind the cloaked riders came scores of Dwemer on foot, the armoured warriors kicking in doors and rushing into buildings, the sounds of their bloody work coming in the form of strangled cries and shrieks. Here and there they would drag out terrified looking Dunmer civilians, mostly children and the elderly, the rest evidently preferring to fight to the death than risk capture.

Cuolec's booming shouts echoed across the town as he reined in his automaton in the main square, the spider's bladed legs stabbing and squelching into the bloated corpses of Redoran Guard and Dunmer mercenaries in an eclectic mix of various armours.

Anihata felt herself fell more and more disturbed at the Dwemer commander's actions as she panned her gaze over the devastated town. But she mentally shook herself, knowing that it was necessary for the Dwemer's victory to make harsh attacks like this, to break their enemies both on the battlefield and at home.

As she centred her gaze once more on Cuolec, the Dwemer commander seemed to sense her watching him, raising his blood soaked sword to the sky and saluting.

"Long live the High Queen!" He roared, his cry taken up by the rest of his men. "Victory for the Dwemer!"

The High Queen closed her eyes, letting the image disappear as she once more returned to the throne room, opening er eyes to see the chamber now filled with people.

The portal at the far end of the room was now evidently ready, as Tonal Architects and engineers scurried around it. And now, streaming into the huge chamber came rank after rank of warriors in gold armour bearing heavy tower shields. The soldiers quickly marched into positions and began setting up a thick line of shieldwalls in a U shape around the portal. With a clatter of metal and shouted orders, the warriors closed ranks and stood firm as dozens of crossbowmen and archers clattered into position behind them, arrows nocked and bolts at the ready.

For a second Anihata looked around blankly, the mental stress of the lexicon still numbing her thought processes. As she stared around the rapidly filling chamber, the leader of the Guard of Kemel-Ze, Hama of Clan Nanaja, her pretty face hidden by her equally striking helmet, came up the steps toward the throne, bowing low before the queen.

"My queen," she said from her crouched position, the long spear in her hands clenched in a tight grip. "I did not mean to disturb your divinations…"

Anihata shook her head, standing up from the uncomfortable stone throne. "No matter Hama. I take it by all the commotion that the last of our forces are incoming."

Hama nodded quickly, behind her the rest of the Guard forming up into a near wall of lowered spears around the dais. "The last of the civilians and regular troops have crossed over through the other Tonal Bridges. But the Black Prince was insistent on arriving with the rear-guard through the throne room's portal."

The High Queen took a deep breath, trying not to let her frustration show through on her drawn face.

"I'll let him. The prince abuses his…position in my heart a bit but I can overlook it."

"You know the prince…" Hama replied with what sounded like a quiet laugh. "He likes things done…"

"His own way," Anihata replied shortly. "I've known the man since he was born. He's barely a century old and thinks himself the greatest asset we have."

"Can't blame the man," Hama replied as the two of them descended the dais, stopping just behind the line of bodyguards in front of them. "You must have heard of his exploits! Slaying the Snow King in single combat during the War of the Crag! Battling the Chimer on the slopes of this very mountain! I've heard he…"

"This level of praise definitely goes beyond professional concerns doesn't it?" Anihata asked with a slight smile. She had seen Hama take on whole packs of Dremora with nothing but a spear and knew her as a merciless warrior. Seeing her gushing about a man like a love-struck teenager was- different- to say the least.

"Oh no my queen!" Hama said with an embarrassed bow. "I just…"

"The Tonal Bridge is active!" bellowed a voice from the far end of the room, and instantly Hama straightened up, gripping her spear and moving in front of Anihata without another thought, the rest of the Guard standing firm.

Every man and woman in the vast chamber seemed to tense as the dull hum of energy filled the air, fingers tightening on crossbow triggers, hands gripping shields and swords, limbs tensing up within layers of armour. The vast portal at the far end of the room, the same shape as a Centurion charging station but three times as tall, began to crackle and hiss, bolts of purple and blue lighting crackling across its bronze form and dispelling amongst the soldiers and engineers standing by. Here and there individual bolts jumped across the ranks of warriors, leaping from man to man like wisps, causing nothing but mere annoyance, but making unearthly hissing noises as they did so-as if they were alive.

Then, with a throb of magical energy and hum of machinery, more and more threads of lighting began to jump across the empty arch itself. They began to join in the middle into a ball of bright light until, when the ball of purple and blue had reached the size of the arch, sent out a blinding flash of light that caused every Dwemer in the room to flinch.

Anihata rubbed her eyes, blinking away the coloured spots and floaters that clouded her vision. For a second the portal was nothing but a blank space of shifting light and then, with an unearthly roar, figures began appearing from it.

For a second Anihata felt a spike of fear at the warriors outfitted in jet black armour rushing out, but then stopped herself as she saw that, besides the pitch black armour and a few odd spikes on their gauntlets and greaves, these were definitely Dwemer, and their weaponry and equipment was exactly the same.

The warriors in black paid no heed to the rank after rank of other Dwemer as they ran out, dozens of them, instead forming their own defence line around the portal. Barking orders at each other, the warriors readied swords and axes that glowed with an unearthly red light, as if the blades themselves were alive.

It was only when what looked like the entirety of the Black Prince's deadly force- the infamous Black Army, had come out, that the man himself appeared.

Leaping out of the portal came a figure dressed from head to toe in black, the only nod to colour being a dark purple cloak around his shoulders, secured with a brooch of gold and Aetherium, two curved swords in sheathes at his hips and a blackened Dwemer crossbow in hand.

"What is-"Hama began, but any comments were cut off as a group of Dremora exploded out of the portal in blast of red light and ran straight for the Prince.

Without even flinching the Prince fired off his crossbow, punching a hole through the neck of the lead Dremora and instantly throwing the weapon aside. The remaining two Daedra rushed forward, and for a split second Anihata saw every crossbow in the room trained on them, ready to tear them apart.

The moment never came.

With a harsh cry of defiance the Prince stood firm and, in a heartbeat, his gauntleted hands went to the two sheathes at his hip and, with a clatter of metal, he drew the two blades, revealing them both to be jagged Daedric swords, one glowing with a dark red light, the other crackling with arcane lighting.

Drawing the blades across his chest, their blades humming and crackling with energy, the Prince ran forward, almost casually slashing the throat of one Dremora with a flick of his wrist, then, with a dramatic flourish, bringing the other blade around and decapitating the other. As the two Dremora's bodies hit the ground simultaneously, and with the eyes of countless Dwemer warriors all looking at him with dumbstruck awe, the Prince bowed slightly and the portal cut out from behind him with a crack.

Anihata sighed and pushed through the line of her bodyguards, the Guard instantly forming up around her as she walked across the empty space to where the Black Army were already organising themselves into ranks, fists on hearts in firm salute, five hundred warriors all in perfect formation. At the head of them all, the Black Prince sheathed his twin blades and dropped to his knees, along with every one of his men.

"My queen," he said formally and sincerely. "We have successfully finished our rear-guard operations. The last of our people and resources are across the Tonal Bridge. The Black Army is yours to command."

As he said this the Black Prince removed his jet black helmet to reveal a surprisingly young and drawn face, thin and gaunt like the queen's, as if he had seen and done things that were meant for those far older. His skin was deathly pale compared to the gold of Anihata's, and his beard was little more than a short goatee with some stubble, suggesting he had only recently started growing facial hair.

The High Queen took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of every man and woman in the room upon her, straightened up and struck what she hoped was a regal pose before replying simply.

"It is good to have you back from the realms of Oblivion…brother."

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The chamber of the Council of Masters went from loud chatter to instant silence as Anihata walked in, the Black Prince at her side, his black armour replaced by an equally dark set of robes that seemed to hang off his wiry frame like a shroud. The queen however was as resplendent as ever, her hair freshly curled and filled with dozens of tiny jewels that reflected the light of the infinite candles and braziers that lit the high ceilinged council chamber.

The Council of Masters, the eight eldest and most distinguished Dwemer alive, was filled with two representatives from each council below it, the Warriors, the Engineers, the Tonal Architects and the Merchants. Each member wore the corresponding colour robe as his own council, with the green robed form of Lord Kagrenac alongside the haughty, blue robed, Lady Tanar the Gilded, of the Council of Merchants and Lord Asano, the venerable former commander of Blackreach's legions, a thin and wrinkled man in a stunning set of gold and red ceremonial robes. All of them bowed their heads as Anihata approached, the other occupants of the room, a large group of scribes and the Council Honour Guard, standing stiffly at attention.

All of them, except for General Bahrma, who looked half asleep yet still attempted a salute as Anihata came to stand by him.

"Cut the formalities my friends," Anihata began stiffly. "We have important work to do and our enemies will not stand by and wait for us."

"Of course my queen," Lord Asano said respectfully as he stood up, "Let me offer congratulations on behalf of this council to the Black Prince for his victory in bringing every one of our people from the Daedra's traps."

As the rest of the council echoed their agreement, Anihata noticed the Prince stiffen slightly, as if he wasn't used to praise like this.

"I personally wish to congratulate you…" Lord Asano said with a slight smile across his old features. "…on slaying Ranyu the Vizier and Amkaos the Elder. I see you carry their blades at your hip. I fought them myself once. Only managed to drive them off so I respect anyone who can take them on and destroy them."

The Prince smiled slightly at that as he drew the two swords, the guards looking slightly uneasy at the arcane weapons.

"Heartstopper and Fleshtearer," The Prince said with a nod at the two blades. "Fitting names, don't you think?"

"This is very touching I presume," Lord Kagrenac said irritably. "But can we get to the matter at hand, my queen?"

Anihata tried not to glare at the old Dwemer for his complete disregard for any kind of respect as Lord Asano, grudgingly, nodded and continued speaking.

"Since we all know of your skills in battle, my prince, we have need of you for a special assignment."

"I'm listening…" the Prince replied simply as he sheathed his blades.

"We stand ready to invade all of Morrowind in force. General Bahrma here will be leading an army of fifty thousand in a direct assault on the city of Blacklight once we have established a sea route to the mainland. We all appreciate that your skills would be useful alongside the general's tactical expertise, or perhaps in…reining in...Commander Cuolec, but there is a much more important mission we need you and the Black Army for. Something more important than storming cities or crippling the Great Houses' ability to respond."

As he said this a servant in red robes spread a large map of Morrowind on the stone council table, the Council members and those they had summoned to stand before them all crowding in to get a better look.

"Our main sea route for the assault on Blacklight is here," Lord Asano explained, pointing one bony finger at a recently added settlement marker. "Imperial prisoners have identified this settlement as being a major Imperial port and staging ground called Fort Reclusion. I have personally despatched Commander Cuolec to take this vital harbour and, if possible, preserve any ships he can salvage. General Bahrma's forces will establish a safe sea route and transfer the majority of his troops to the mainland here…" he added, pointing out a bare section of coastline marked by several notes as containing good natural harbours. "By then we should have sufficiently armed and trained any remaining men and women of military age to support this main thrust with a simultaneous attack upon the scattered towns and forts to the south. Now, as for you, my prince, we need you to seize some vital intel from the site of one of our former strongholds."

As he said this he stabbed a finger into a small island just off the coast of Morrowind.

"Solstheim, as the local Nords call it. The city of Nchardak,the 'City of a Hundred Towers' there not only contains the largest automaton production facility outside of Red Mountain, but is also the largest of the Great Archives. We need you to sail to Solstheim and secure the city. Your primary objective will be to secure the Lexicon of Radac Stungnthumz, the greatest Dwemer weaponsmith in recorded history-tragically lost to us during our stay in Clavicus Vile's realm."

"You're sending me to recover the notes of a dead blacksmith?" The Prince asked with a smirk, folding his arms smugly.

"Of course not you arrogant fool. Know your place!" Anihata snapped, and the Prince instantly stopped and bowed solemnly as the queen continued. "Radac was the greatest creator of anti-magical weapons in Dwemer history. I never met the man himself when we last walked Tamriel but, if the stories are true, he was said to be able to make weapons that made the gods themselves tremble in fear. It was he that forged the hammer Volendrung and that created the Spellbreaker shield that King Rourken used to nearly slay Shalidor, the most powerful mage who ever lived. Acquiring his accumulated knowledge would help us immensely in our plans."

"If this man was able to forge such great weapons," Bahrma asked shrewdly. "Why is he not still with us?"

Anihata sighed. "Radac was, like most men who consider themselves 'the greatest' also terribly arrogant. Whilst we attempted to rebuild from the horrors of Hircine's Hunting Grounds in the realm of Clavicus Vile, Radac made a bargain with the Daedric Prince- that he would always be able to practice his work and that he would never fear death."

"What did Vile do?" Bahrma asked. "Daedric promises are never beneficial."

The queen smiled darkly. "Vile turned him into a spectre and let him wander the halls of Bamz-Aschend for eternity. Unfortunately that city is built underneath the current site of the city of Mournhold which, if our intelligence is correct, is currently occupied by a significant force of Argonians. Until we can secure the services of Radac himself, his lexicon will have to do."

"I will do it," The Prince said solemnly to the queen, his short lived arrogance lost beneath his older sister's impatient gaze. "We can be off tomorrow morning and secure ourselves transport when we reach the sea. But I have one question before we march for the coast. What exactly do you intend to do with this lexicon?"

Anihata smiled slightly as she spoke.

"Radac created many countless weapons of great power in his long life. Ones that made the gods themselves be afraid. But I don't want to make the gods afraid of us. I don't want the Daedra to run and hide. When we have the information from that lexicon I will show them all the power of the Dwemer. We will get vengeance, brother. We will show the Kar-Din that the 'gods' are nothing to fear. We will show the whole of creation how to kill a god."


	15. Chapter 15- Know Your Enemy

The Dragonborn awoke that morning to the sound of ten thousand pairs of armoured feet marching towards Whiterun.

Rolling off the light bedroll he had been resting on, he quickly threw on a Legion issue red tunic and began strapping on a set of light armour, the high quality Imperial steel and leather as light as feather on his tired body. Buckling on his sword belt, Dragonbane glinting in its sheath at his side, he stumbled out of the small officer's tent and out into the camp beyond.

The first thing he decided, besides the bright sunlight and ever present winds blowing across the plains outside Whiterun, was the riot of sound in the camp around him. The clanging of steel on steel at the forges, shouts from the training areas and dozens of individual conversations filled the air around him, and he smiled as he could smell the strong stench of Imperial stew- affectionately known as 'Cyroddilic Surprise' amongst the troops- hanging on the wind. As he walked down through the maze of tents and stockpiled supplies, he felt a slight sense of peace, despite the obvious tension in the troops he passed.

His parents had both been Legionnaires before he was born, until his mother was wounded in a skirmish with Thalmor scouts during the Great War and his father developed a serious case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Both of them were discharged before he was born, and the first time had experienced a Legion camp had been during the Stormcloak uprising, but, maybe because of his family's connection to it, he felt safest and most at home when amongst the men and women of the Imperial Legion. As he came to the stout palisade wall that marked the edge of the massive Skyrim Holds and Legion camp- just finished the day before by a group of surly but competent Tribal Orc builders- he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

"Hadvar?" he said with a sense of relief as the burly Nord ran over.

"I'm glad to see you too sir…" the Nord replied with a wry smile. "Don't look so surprised," he added as he saw Lucius' confused face. "I was with the advance riders of the army marching from Solitude. The one you can hear right now."

As he said this the two men made their way through the palisade gate to their left and out onto the open plains of Whiterun, the very edge of the huge military camp that had sprung up around the ancient city. In the near distance the soldiers from Solitude's vast and well equipped army were marching closer, ten thousand soldiers in red cloaks and scaled steel armour. Alongside them rode a division of five hundred heavy cavalry wearing plate armour and bearing red kite shaped shields, while standard bearers on horseback amongst the column bore aloft the wolf crest on scarlet banners that fluttered and unfurled in the strong wind.

"Impressive," Lucius said simply as they both looked out over the advancing army. "But I still doubt how well they can last against Dwemer…."

Hadvar sighed. "I don't really know how well any of us can do against the Dwemer. Seems everyone is completely writing off every soldier we have because of one battle. I can assure you Lucius, I spoke with some of the men on the journey here. They know their chances are slim, but there's no honour in just giving up without a fight like some…milk drinker." He said with a hopeful smile.

By now the army of Solitude were coming within sight of the gates, and Lucius picked out the armoured figures of Bolgeir Bearclaw, Jarl Elisif's surly housecarl and commander of her bodyguard division and Captain Aldis, the head of Solitude's own city guard.

"You would not believe how hard it was to convince old Bolgeir that Balgruuf's own warriors would be more than enough to protect her," Hadvar said and laughed. "I knew housecarls were loyal, but he almost turned down commanding a whole army to be alongside his lord."

Lucius shrugged. "You should have seen my housecarl's back in my adventuring days. Every time me and Serana wanted to go off on our own looting a cave or potholing in a Dwemer city, half of them would demand to come with us, and the other half would ride ahead and clear the dungeon in advance to stop me getting hurt. Kind of takes the fun out of adventuring… I mean, that whole business in Solstheim, every one of my housecarls was hanging about in Raven Rock waiting for me to finally agree to let them come with me."

Hadvar smiled. "I'm so sorry Lucius," he said with a wiry grin. "I forgot how hard it is being the Thane of all the Holds in Skyrim."

"What can I say," Lucius said with a shrug. "I can't let myself get tied down to one Hold, especially not now the Civil Wars over and we're still trying to rebuild."

The thump of hooves on the dirt road behind them quickly ended the two soldiers' conversation, and the two men turned to see a grey robed Vigilant of Stendaar sporting an impressive moustache, atop a brown horse outfitted in a light set of silver barding armour, riding over to them, pulling up short with a clatter of spurs.

"Dragonborn!" the Vigilant called out, the silver mace at his side glinting in the sunlight as he bowed from the saddle, "Vigilant Arianna requests your presence immediately! She has vital intelligence on the enemy forces she needs you to see," He added in a lower voice, leaping nimbly from the saddle and motioning at his horse. "Take my horse. According to Arianna this is a most urgent matter."

Lucius nodded quickly. He had learnt throughout his time as the Dragonborn that literally everything was an urgent matter-especially when he was involved.

Clambering atop the horse, which obediently stayed still as Lucius' wiry frame settled atop the saddle, the Dragonborn and nodded at the Vigilant by way of thanks. Giving Hadvar a cheery smile, Lucius galloped away and through the camp, up the road and towards the city above, that sat like an island in a sea of canvas tents and open training grounds.

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The interior of Dragonsreach was a flurry of activity when Lucius entered. On all sides were groups of soldiers from all the Holds along with Imperial officers and regional commanders wearing cloaks depicting the crest of their homelands. Messengers ran to and fro clutching armfuls of scrolls while battlemages in an eclectic mix of armour and robes talked in hushed tones in dark corners, tiny nimbuses and bolts of magic crackling around them in the gloom. Above it all hung the babble of dozens of different conversations, ranging from whispers and secretive murmurs to the near bellow of someone who could only be Jarl Igmund.

Walking down the central aisle, Lucius blended in perfectly with the other Imperial soldiers gathered around the room and, to most of the people there who had probably never seen him without his usual Dragonbone armour, he just looked like any other regular soldier. That was partially why he liked wearing the Legion uniform. That and, even though he could never be a 'normal' person and join the Legion without being expected to clear out bandit infested ruins and take on whole battalions of Stormcloaks single-handed, somehow, when he wore that familiar looking armour and walked amongst other soldiers, he finally felt at home.

After passing the high table where most of the Jarls, as well as Prince Mirtil and several Imperial Legates, deep in council and didn't notice his passing, he was greeted by two burly Vigilants in grey robes with silver maces at their sides. Both men nodded at him as he came to the head of the stairs they guarded.

"Arianna has told us to escort you to her chambers." Stated one of the Vigilants, a blank faced Nord with a thick blond beard.

"Follow us please Dragonborn," The other, sporting a similar hard faced expression but with a black beard, said, motioning with one steel gauntleted hand up the stairs.

Taking the lead the black bearded Vigilant began stomping up the staircase and Lucius followed warily behind. Although he was grateful for Arianna's help a few days ago convincing the Jarl's of the Daedra threat, he hadn't had a lot of particularly good dealings with the Vigilance of Stendaar. From nearly being killed by radical Vigilants on the road for travelling with a former vampire to finding their base of operations in ruins just when he needed them the most, the Vigilants had never been a huge help to him or to Skyrim as a whole- either being too fanatical or not really prepared enough to properly protect the people of the province.

As they ascended the winding wooden staircase and passed along corridors thronged with more soldiers and tacticians both Imperial and Nord, the blond bearded Vigilant turned to the Dragonborn.

"My name is Vigilant Pavel. My companion is Vigilant Arminius. We've not met before but both of us have heard of your triumphs. I was glad to hear that you cleared the vampires out of our Hall after it was sacked."

"Just doing what I could." Lucius replied with a smile.

Vigilant Arminius smiled grimly. "I almost wish you had left a few for us to destroy when we arrived. We had been sent out on a mission to track down a rogue group of mages when we heard of the Hall's destruction," He shook his head. "A third of the Hall's members were with us- some of the best warriors too. Turns out the tip off we got was fake. If Arianna hadn't been there to rally us, I don't know what would have happened. We've met far too many of our former brethren who went mad or tried to take back the Hall on their own and got…turned."

Lucius shook his head slowly and frowned. "I've encountered a few of your former comrades like that. You'll be glad to know we put them out of their misery."

Pavel nodded grimly. "I guess that's the best we can ask for. Thank you Dragonborn."

By now they were climbing an empty set of stairs deep within the castle interior. The distant sounds of patrolling guards and muffled voices below showed how far away from the main parts of the palace they were by now.

"Arianna does like her privacy doesn't she?" Lucius quipped but the two men with him didn't share his smile.

"I respect Arianna for what she did rebuilding our order," Pavel said softly, but with underlying menace. "However her…thoughts and methods…are not ones that we in the Vigilance condone."

"But desperate times do call for desperate measures." Arminius conceded as they came to a narrow corridor, half filled with barrels and crates with a dusting of cobwebs in the rafters overhead and a solitary wooden door at the end of the passage.

The two Vigilants bowed to Lucius before turning on their heels and walking stiffly away and back down the stairs.

000000

When Lucius stepped into Arianna's private room, it was nothing like he had imagined. Far from being a quiet space of meditation and healing, like the Hall of the Vigilant had once been, the room resembled a cross between an armoury and a mage's tower. It reminded him quite a lot of Valerica's study in Castle Volkihar.

The large room was almost completely filled with crates and barrels filled with everything from potion ingredients and sweet rolls to silver tipped arrows and crossbow bolts. Weapons racks lined the wooden walls, jostling for space with shelves heaving with potion ingredients and glass vials filled with multi-coloured liquids. In the far corner a weapons enchanting table and alchemy lab were nearly lost amongst piles of scrolls and stacked wooden boxes with iron edges.

Stepping gingerly between the clutter, Lucius glanced around the room, noticing the central table, currently occupied by two crossbows, a set of iron and silver stakes and a strange black stone bowl he couldn't make sense of. The bowl was dish shaped and as large as the top of a barrel; its contents a swirling clear water that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.

He was just about to touch the water when he saw the Vigilant appear from a small side room, reading from a red leather backed journal. She turned her head and clocked him, snapping the book shut with a thump and turning to face him, hands on her hips.

"I hope it wasn't too hard getting up here?" She said briskly, sitting down on a chair at the far end of the table, motioning for Lucius to do the same before smoothing out her grey robe and absently checking her brown hair- still in its tight bun.

"I have to say you definitely found somewhere…out of the way," Lucius replied with a slight smile. "I didn't even know this room was in the palace."

"Well, as you no doubt heard from my colleagues, my work is seen as…dangerous, by my brother and sister Vigilants. And yet, you should know this much more than anyone else, sometimes the best way to defeat your enemy…"

She paused, holding up her hand in an open palm and, with a burst of purple flame, a Daedric dagger made of fire appeared in her hand and, with a flick of her wrist, disappeared back into Oblivion.

"…is to use their methods against them."

Lucius flinched at the Vigilant's actions. "But…the Vigilance…"

"Are a bunch of well-meaning fools, Dragonborn. You should understand. For what was it that ended the Dragon Wars, where all the swords and arrows of the ancient Nords failed? What did you do to defeat Alduin and Miraak? You used their power against them. Took that which they prized so greatly and believed they alone was in control of- their power- and turned it against them. That is how I have fought against the enemies of the innocent for years,"

As she continued, Arianna stood up and walked around the table, picking up a dagger of solid silver from the selection on the table.

"When I faced the infamous Taskmaster of Bards Leap Summit- a notorious Daedra worshipper and bloodthirsty apostle of Mehrunes Dagon- I strangled him with his own Oblivion forged whip. The Dark Oracle, I turned her own Daedric allies against her using forbidden magics. And when I faced the Windhelm Butcher, I raised the corpse of his most recent victim and used her to choke the life from his corrupted body. Sometimes Dragonborn…" she added, plunging the dagger into the hard wood of the table, leaving it quivering in the thick oak. "…we have to use our enemies own weapons and tactics against them to catch them off guard and destroy them. Sometimes we have to let little things like morals take a backseat until our people are safe."

Lucius shook his head and sighed deeply.

"Don't you see Arianna? Even when our enemies are an invincible empire from eras ago and the uncountable legions of Daedra, we still have to stick to our ways, to our morals! If we have to sacrifice everything good about us like you seem to be implying, what's the point? If we fight monsters and become monsters ourselves, what really makes our cause right?"

The Vigilant smiled slightly. "I knew your would say that. Your esteemed colleague Calcelmo informed me of your…sense of morality when we spoke a few hours ago."

"How is that even possible?" Lucius asked, his previous sense of outrage replaced by a more inquisitive air, the Vigilant's words making little sense to him.

"By using our enemy's technology," Arianna replied, turning to the bowl of liquid, and muttering an incantation over it. "Observe."

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Lucius nonetheless looked into the bowl, and his eyes widened as the clear liquid began to show a view of a cobblestone Imperial road running through a field, in the centre of it a familiar Altmer figure in blue robes galloping at high speed atop a sturdy Nordic horse.

"I have to give the old man credit," Arianna continued. "He spent a few nights in the custody of the Imperial customs officials and still refused to give up in the face of overwhelming bureaucracy and stupidity. I would estimate he will reach the Imperial City within a day or two. In answer to your question though Dragonborn, I used this to contact him."

Reaching underneath the table she produced the unmistakeable cuboid form of a Dwemer lexicon, sat on a base of bronze and gold, gently rotating a few centimetres off the base. And, in the heart of the golden base, the candle light glinted off the sinister dark form of a black soul gem.

"Within this soul gem is one of the only remaining examples of a trapped Dwemer soul," Arianna explained matter-of-factly. "You would not believe how valuable this gem is, both to us and our enemies. My use for it however is a bit more subdued. You see, whilst reading some tomes of Dwemer knowledge a few months before this crisis, I discovered the method by which the Dwarves empires and city states stayed in contact across such vast distances. Every member of their race had, to a greater and smaller extent, a form of telepathy known as 'the Calling' which allowed them to stay in constant contact with their fellows. That is why their battle formations are so deadly, why their engineers and Tonal Architects pool their combined knowledge, and how their leaders can plot overall strategy on the battlefield from the safety of a far off fortress. Using this lexicon I've been able to tap into the Calling this ancient Dwemer soul possesses a window into, and use it for our own ends. I can even conjure up images from the past,"

As she said this the Vigilant waved her hand over the bowl of water, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow in concentration.

Lucius peered deeply into the shifting liquid until, with a shimmer of light, it formed itself once again into an image. This one depicted what looked like a half built Dwemer city, composed entirely of gold and brass. And, as he looked closer, he could see dark figures in armour fighting within the city's maze of streets and interiors. Half were the distinctive forms of armoured Dremora but it was who they were fighting that made Lucius feel a stab of fear.

The soldiers were obviously Dwemer, and yet their armour looked…wrong, somehow. In place of the normal dull bronze, the plate armour was blackened and more resembling the armour of the Dremora they were fighting. Their weapons too, although the same design as normal Dwemer weaponry, also included sinister looking modifications like spikes on shields and extra prongs and flesh ripping blades on axes and swords.

"They are the Black Army," Arianna explained. "One thousand warriors strong, from what the Dwemer commanders I listened in on have been saying. Their armour is made from Dwemer metal forged using the hearts and souls of Daedric creatures. Their leader is this man," she added, moving her fingers in a complex pattern over the bowl, which turned the viewpoint from the battlefield as a whole to a single figure, clad in the same armour as the others, but with a cloak of purple flowing from his shoulders. In his hands was a set of two Daedric swords, both rippling with arcane energy as he rammed the two blades through the chest of a Dremora and ripped them out in a burst of black blood and decapitated the creature.

"The Black Prince. He answers only to the Dwemer High Queen and, at this very moment, is riding for the coast. Wherever he is going, death and destruction will not be far behind."

"What are you trying to tell me?" Lucius asked.

"Do you think you could have found out this information using traditional methods? I'm just trying to show you that, even if you don't agree with my methods, they give results. I wanted to tell you this now before you start accusing me of using evil magic or something ridiculous I have nothing but the best intentions."

"So what would you recommend we do? This war has barely begun and we're already finding out there's at least three enemy armies out there. The Dwemer, the Thalmor and the Daedra! How can we fight them all at once?"

Arianna smiled slightly and turned to the Imperial. "You let me worry about the Daedra, Dragonborn. The Jarls have appointed me as the leader of all anti-Daedric forces in our armies. I've already sent messenger hawks appealing to aid from our fellow Chapters in High Rock and Cyroddil. And the Dawnguard are gathering their forces as we speak in the Rift. Give me a week and we'll have five thousand elite warriors ready to counter anything the Daedra can throw at us. As for the Dominion, we'll have to-"

Suddenly the door at the far end of the room burst open and Proventus, Balgruff's steward, burst in, along with two palace guards. The steward's face was red and streaked with sweat as he shouted.

"Dragonborn! There's no time to lose! Our scouts have spotted a swarm of Dragons heading towards the city, led by that same…creature, we captured a few years ago. They're shouting your name across the plains of Whiterun as we speak! What should we do?"

Even Arianna looked concerned at the news, but Lucius only smiled and nodded before saying, with a wry grin.

"Don't worry Proventus. It seems our army has just got a healthy upgrade to our firepower…"


	16. Chapter 16- Break of Dawn

_Night fell on the fortified city of Bruma as the ancient settlement clung to the mountains that bordered Skyrim. The streets were filled with revellers still, the parties and celebrations continuing weeks after the end of the Great War. The White Gold Concordant had been signed and, for now, the Imperials and Nords who inhabited Bruma were just joyful the war was over- still not knowing at the moment what the treaty would lead to. A resounding roar of triumph and joy filled the streets as the city gates swung open and the victorious men and women of the 6__th__ Legion marched back into the city._

_At their head were the twin figures of General Jonna, the hard faced Nord woman who accepted the crowd's cheers with a curt nod and the young Count Morgan Carvain, a youth of barely twenty years clad in plate armour, raising his sword in salute to the common people gathered around._

"_This victory belongs to all of us!" he bellowed. "We drove the Elven bastards back to the sea! Mark my words my friends! Next stop, Summerset Isle and the Empire reforged!"_

_At the Count's last dramatic words the entire crowd went ballistic, screaming and shouting for joy in the way only Nords can. _

"_So go my noble warriors!" the count added, turning to the column of weary but jubilant Imperial and native Bruman troops behind him. "Drink, eat and make merry! Tonight we're going to drink so much we could drown every pointy eared bastard in the Summerset Isles in ale and mead!"_

_The column of soldiers needed no further encouragement as they threw their weapons and shields into the nearest supply cart and ran into the streets, throwing caution to the wind as they found gold, food and alcohol being thrust upon them by the grateful citizens around them. _

_And yet, at the far end of the column, one Imperial officer wasn't rushing to join the party. A broad shouldered and intimidating looking Redguard, the Legate remained atop his horse, but a broad smile crossed his face regardless._

"_Sir!" shouted a nearby soldier, a grinning Imperial with a cask of ale under each arm, on his way to join the party. "Are you not joining us?"_

_The Redguard laughed and shook his head. "Sorry Livius. I would love to join you but I have to get back over the border. It's been months since I saw my family."_

"_Skyrim? Come on sir!" the slightly inebriated Imperial said. "My family are all the way back in High Rock and I'm still taking a day off to party! Your family will still be there when you get back, trust me."_

"_I would love to have a drink but how can I possibly do the ride over the mountains when I can barely see straight?"_

_The Imperial grinned. "The Legion provides, remember? Legate Antonius was telling me he's organised a whole convoy to Solitude to get you Skyrim lot back home. Word is it's going to be a non-stop party- heard some of the boy's calling it the booze cruise!"_

_As the soldier laughed drunkenly at his own joke, the Legate furrowed his brow. His wife Ashanta wouldn't begrudge him arriving a day or two late and a bit drunk. He hadn't had a chance to unwind in so long he was scared he was starting to become a monk. _

_He shrugged. One last crazy party was exactly what he needed._

"_I'm in." he said with a wide grin._

_000000_

_The Redguard awoke in the back of a cart on a pile of animal skins and empty bottles. Blinking the sleep away from his eyes he vaguely noticed the other Imperial soldiers lying around him in various states- from passed out entirely to vomiting over the side of the cart onto the road beneath them._

"_Booze cruise my arse!" shouted a soldier from the cart behind. "This has been nothing but a vomit comet since we left Falkreath!"_

_The Legate tried not to think about how much wine he had drank over the last few days. He vaguely remembered leaving Falkreath a few days ago after the drunken Imperial soldiers had been thrown out of the town for swapping tombstones in the graveyard and cow tipping. How he had got this far, the Reach, judging by the humid air and stench of melted silver on the air, without falling off the cart he didn't know. Judging by the state of most of the other soldiers in the carts around him, he was one of the lucky ones._

"_Just coming up to Markarth!" came a shout from one of the soldiers riding alongside them, one of the only sober men in the entire convoy-if only to keep bandits and Forsworn away._

_As they rounded the bend and crossed a bridge of smooth stone bricks, Markarth came into view, its mammoth wall dominating the view up ahead while the mess of stables, smelters and taverns clustering near the city gate were getting closer, and looking more inviting, by the minute._

"_The heroes of the Empire!" came a shout from a gang of miners up ahead, who raised their pickaxes in greeting as the carts rumbled past., and their cheers were taken up by other miners and city guards nearby._

_Raising a hand to wave at the onlookers, the Redguard felt a wave of nausea move through him then, with a lame wave at the people cheering for him, fell asleep on the cart once more._

_000000_

_The next few hours for him were a mess of half remembered events and swirling colours. He vaguely remembered being carried through Markarth's maze of streets by some helpful city guard while civilians cheered and offered to buy him drinks. He also remembered his wife's relieved face when they came to his house and his children, too young to understand their father's drunkenness, were just happy to see their father again, even if he smelt funny and was barely awake._

"_Sleep my hero of the Empire," His wife had said, half-jokingly but half with relief, as she helped him into bed. "When you're feeling more coherent Azzada said he's dropping round with Michel. Your brother is eager to see the war hero himself and hear your stories." _

_With one last smile and kiss on his forehead, his wife left him, closing the golden Dwemer made doors behind her as she left the bedroom._

_000000_

_The Redguard awoke instantly when he heard his wife screaming._

_The world still blurry and moving around him, he leapt out of bed, still dressed in his sweat stained Legion undershirt. Grabbing his steel officer's sword from next to his bed, he kicked open the bedroom doors, wincing slightly as his foot smacked into the Dwarven metal. Rushing through the children's bedroom he frantically searched for them but, as soon as he saw the empty beds, the sheets and animal skin covers thrown aside and furniture askew, he felt his blood begin to chill in his veins._

_Gripping his sword tightly, he pushed through the next set of doors and into the main room, the large room in darkness except for a few candles. For a second he had a vision of his family, his two small daughters- both barely four years old- and Ashanta, her short black hair rumpled and her dress torn. And at the same time he saw the men in masks and robes that held them tightly and had steel daggers at their throats._

_Rushing forward with a drunken roar, he saw a figure coming at him from the right and, his combat skills kicking in, jumped back, just dodging the clumsy sweep of the robed figure's Orcish mace. The figure screamed at him as he missed. "Molog Bal take you!"_

_Ignoring the cultist's ramblings, the Legate brought his sword up and swung, slashing the attacker's throat in one clean sweep. The man fell back with a shrill cry, dropping his mace and attempting to stop the blood spurting out from his neck but the Redguard kicked him aside, the man slamming into the stone wall with a thump._

_Curling his fist into a ball, the Redguard reached into the pocket of his undershirt and, willing his drunken mind to not impact his aim, threw a trio of darts from his hand. The robed figures had no time to react before each had taken a dart to the face- the Legate's deadly aim sending each dart slamming straight through their masks eye holes despite his inebriated state._

_For a second he felt a huge sense of triumph and ran over to his tearful family, ready to grab them and hold them tight, never let them out of his sight again._

_Then his wife shouted over at him. "Stop! There is…"_

_The Redguard ran over to her, but then felt every fibre of his being seem to lock in place, his whole body as frozen as the Sea of Ghosts- his wife and daughters also stopping stock still, held by the same supernatural grip. He couldn't move a muscle, and that's when another figure appeared from the darkness._

_The newcomer was tall and thin, dressed from head to toe in the same black robes as his underlings, who were all lying dead on the floor. The man threw back his hood and revealed a face the Redguard recognised instantly. He may have a much thinner face since he last saw him, and his eyes were now an unnatural gold, but the Legate felt every fibre of his being try to scream as he realised the horror of what he was seeing._

"_Lord Naarfiin." He said, using the only moving part of his body- his mouth- to try and make sense of what he was seeing. "But…you're…you're dead. I dragged you up those steps myself. I knotted the rope…"_

"_Oh yes I am very much dead…Legate." The Altmer spat with contempt, standing behind Ashanta's unmoving form-the Redguard woman unable, or just couldn't form the words, to try and say something. "But my lord has remade me for a new purpose- one that petty squabbles over territory pale into comparison to. But first I'm going to settle a few scores. It didn't take a lot of work to track you down. The threat of having their throat cut does make mortal men tell everything they know. I must admit General Jonna was as unmoving as ever. She refused to give you up even when I ripped out her husband's heart and threw it in her face. A good thing that soldier I found outside her house was more willing to talk. What was his name…Livius maybe?"_

"_What do you want from me Naarfiin? If you want to kill me do it now. Just…just leave my family," He spluttered, his normally composed attitude falling away as he realised the helplessness of the situation. "I-I don't care what you do to me. Hang me from the tallest tower, tear off my limbs, drag me all the way back to the Dominion…"_

"_The Dominion!" Naarfiin laughed as he traced one talon-like finger across Ashanta's neck. "Those worthless wastes of souls aren't worth my time for much longer. I'll return to them yes, but my current…state of being, is going to remain our little secret."_

"_You're what?" The Redguard said with complete confusion and Naarfiin smiled._

"_Allow me to demonstrate." The Altmer replied, seconds before he plunged his teeth into Ashanta's neck and drank deep, pulling away with a grin as blood ran down his face. "It's more of a rush every time." He added, smiling with a mouth filled with crimson._

"_Stop!" The Redguard bellowed powerlessly. _

"_What are you going to do?" The Altmer shot back as he cradled Ashanta's rapidly paling face in one clawed hand. "Drag me up another thousand steps? What were your words, when we were up at the very top of the tower? Make it extra tight? Let him hang? Sounds about right. Well, you left a definite impression on me…" he said, pulling back the collar of his robe to reveal a jagged red scar across his pale neck. "Why don't I return the favour?"_

_And with that he dragged his claw tipped finger across Ashanta's throat, slicing her neck open from ear to ear, before dropping her limp body to the floor with a dull thump._

"_No!" The Redguard screamed. "You…"_

_As the powerless Legate screamed his daughters began to cry, all their previous bottled up fear letting itself forth in bright tears that fell down their plump cheeks._

"_Oh of course, "Naarfiin said softly. "I remember what else you did now. Wasn't it a certain Redguard Legate who ordered my sons to be…what were your words? Ah yes, beheaded and thrown into Lake Rumare? Well, as I said, I should return the favour…" he added menacingly, turning towards the helpless man's daughters, his blood-flecked claws still dripping wet, as the Redguard screamed and hollered._

_000000_

Isran awoke with a jolt, drawing his silver dagger reflexively and slashing at the air in front of him, a hoarse wordless shout escaping his lips. Pulling off his sweat stained undershirt and breathing heavily he threw the bearskin blanket off him and rolled out of the camp bed. As he stood up he shook himself and threw aside the dagger, letting it fall to the canvas floor of the tent.

Instantly the canvas door at the far end was thrown open and two Dawnguard soldiers in full leather and steel armour ran in, crossbows at the ready.

"Isran!" one of them shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the enclosed steel helmet he wore. "What's happened?"

The Redguard shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath as he pulled a woollen shirt over his broad back. "Get out…"

"Sir?" the other asked, stepping forward and lowering his crossbow.

"I said get out!" Isran hollered, standing up to his full height and pointing at the two men, who quickly obeyed his orders and ran out.

Alone once again, the former Imperial Legate and Vigilant of Stendaar once again pulled down the collar of his shirt, as he did every time he had that nightmare, and traced the faded scar across his neck. It may have been over thirty years since that night in Markarth, but the nightmares were always the same every time he tried to sleep. Every time he was forced to relive his helplessness, and then finally it would end the same way it had in real life- his family butchered and Naarfiin drawing a talon across his throat, not enough to kill him, but enough that, when the his brother Azzada appeared with a group of city guard with drawn swords and torches, Isran was lying in a pool of blood and the vampire was gone.

The scuff of heavy boots on the canvas floor caught his attention and Isran bowed his head. "I told you all to get out…" he murmured, less angry now and more just melancholy.

"Isran?" said a familiar voice and then his younger brother, Azzada, was there, dressed in a thick set of Dawnguard heavy armour and with a concerned look on his handsome Redguard features as he stepped into the tent. The two brothers were almost complete opposites, especially in appearance. Where Isran was tall and broad shouldered with a bald head and hooded eyes, Azzada was slim and wiry, his face genial and good looking and a full head of black hair.

"Was it the nightmares again?" he asked with concern, but Isran shrugged.

"I told you sleep wasn't a good idea. Someone might creep up on you…"

"Look brother, we need-"

Suddenly Isran noticed the bottle of mead in Azzada's left hand and stood up, a furious look on his face.

"Is that alcohol?" he said with barely contained fury, and, not waiting for an answer, grabbed the bottle and threw it aside, the glass shattering against a tent post and spilling golden mead everywhere.

"What the-?" Azzada spluttered but Isran inly shook his head slowly.

"What did I tell you brother? Alcohol makes you slow, stupid… Means you make mistakes and mess up. I thought I banned it from the campsite?"

"I just went to the tavern inside the city walls. I needed a break Isran. Sitting in a field while a war is going on just isn't right. We need to get out there and-"

"We are gathering our forces," Isran replied evenly as he began pulling on his armour. "There's a good two thousand of our order with us now and another five hundred at Fort Dawnguard. We can't afford to let the five hundred or so others wander Skyrim trying to track us down. Mogrul and his unit arrived only last night and swelled our numbers by another fifty. As I said to everyone when we arrived here, Riften is the best place to gather our forces and be ready to support the war effort."

As he said this he finished attaching the last parts of his armour then buckled on his belt, a silver sword in a sheath at his side along with a silver dagger.

"I received a messenger hawk from Vigilant Arianna in Whiterun yesterday," he added. "She's rallying the Vigilance to her banner as we speak. I had a message sent back pledging the Dawnguard to support her."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Azzada asked, "I know about your…disagreements with the Vigilance."

Isran nodded gruffly as he pulled on a bandolier filled with silver stakes and scrolls of binding.

"I trust Arianna implicitly, "He said simply, "She's always shared my views on how to tackle our foes. Her methods may be a bit…strange, but she gets results. Arianna recognises that the Dawnguard are superior to the Vigilance in fighting vampires and the Daedra."

Sensing his brother, yet again, wasn't going to back down from his current course of action, Azzada simply nodded back and turned to leave.

"I've had word from my contact in the Legion," he said, "Legate Fasendil received an urgent message last night from his scouts in Morrowind. They've been tailing the Dominion-Argonian army for a few days now. They've identified the leader as Lord Naarfiin."

Instantly Isran looked up from checking his weapons.

"Show me." He demanded.

The two men exited the tent, a large construction of brown hide and red canvas, the two guards on the door bowing respectfully as they left, and stepped out into the Dawnguard encampment beyond. On all sides rose lines of similar brown and red tents as well as flags and banners depicting the sun crest of the Dawnguard.

Azzada led the way down the central path through the camp, the morning sun falling down upon them as the rest of the camp was beginning to wake up. The Redguard smiled slightly as he looked around him. He had always liked the Rift and, he had to admit, camping out next to Lake Honrich was an improvement over the notoriously bad weather he experienced back in Dragonbridge.

"Have you heard from your family?" Isran asked gruffly as they passed by an open area being used as a training ground, where various Dawnguard members practiced crossbow skills on painted targets on the trees.

"Just yesterday," his brother replied with a smile. "Michel's taken Clinton and Julienne, and Lucky the goat of course, up to her cousin's place in Solitude. The Legion is heavily fortifying the city so they're going to be safe."

Isran nodded as they turned the corner and came to the shore of Lake Honrich. The water sparkled and sluggishly flowed in the sunlight while a few Dawnguard sat by the shoreline, a few fishing, others just taking time out of training to rest.

"Get up!" he roared as they passed by the idling soldiers, "The vampires and the Dwarves won't wait around! Why should you?"

The various Dawnguard scattered and Isran smiled grimly. As they came to the main command tent, set up so the cool air from the lake went directly through the front entrance, the four Dawnguard on the door, all veterans decked out in heavy armour with shields and axes, snapped to attention, all bowing as Isran walked past.

Inside the tent the main commanders of the Dawnguard, Florentius, Cellan , Sorine , Durak and Gunmar, were all huddled around a small map table, each of them loudly debating tactics and ideas with their comrades. As soon as Isran walked in however, they all turned as one and fell into respectful silence.

Taking a deep breath, the Redguard walked silently over to the head of the table, put both hands on it and said in a low tone.

"Where is Lord Naarfiin?"

For a second the various Dawnguard commanders looked at each other with concern in their eyes, then Cellan spoke.

"Azzada's contacts placed the Dominion army here," he said, pointing to a point on the map in the south of Morrowind, "They are at least a week's march from Mournhold at their current speed."

"Good," Isran said simply, then snapped at one of the soldiers standing by the door, "You! Fetch me my horse…now!"

As the soldier bowed and ran out the tent, the commanders all turned to Isran with confused looks.

"What are you doing, Isran?" Gunmar asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm hunting down the monster that killed my family. By the time the elves reach Mournhold I'll have rammed a stake in Naarfiin's chest and I'll bring his head back to Skyrim on a spike."

"Surely you can't be serious?" Florentius said, "Arkay has already warned me that Lord Naarfiin is an astonishingly powerful vampire- as much as Harkon was even. Added to that is the fact he is in the middle of one of the largest Dominion armies since the Great War, in the middle of a province currently being fought over by the Dunmer and the Dwarves. It's madness!"

"You have to see sense Isran!" Sorine demanded, slamming her fist on the table. The small Breton's eyes were filled with fury as she continued, "Your friend Arianna has informed me that the Dwemer army currently setting Vvardenfell ablaze contains both Cuolec the Red _and _the Black Prince! These warriors are the kind that even the Dragonborn or the Nerevarine would have trouble killing! If the Dwemer were to track you down you wouldn't have a chance!"

Isran shook his head slowly. "I don't expect you to like my decision, but I think it's the right one. Who knows what vile monsters Naarfiin will call on for aid if he continues to live? While he commands the Dominion's forces we have a massive problem in taking Morrowind from the Dwarves. If I take a small unit of warriors of my own choice, we can strike Naarfiin and his main commanders in the midst of some other event-most likely when the Dwemer move against him. This is not just some petty vendetta. That vampire is, as long as he lives, going to cause nothing but death and horror for Tamriel."

The other commanders were quiet for a moment, then Gunmar spoke.

"If you're really hell-bent on this mad quest, I'm going with you."

"No," Isran replied simply, "You're too important to the war effort. Your blacksmithing skills are second to none and you're the only man I know who can keep our trolls and war dogs in proper fighting shape. They'll need you and your trained animals out on the border. Same goes for you Sorine. Divines know there aren't enough Dwemer experts out there-especially not ones with knowledge of weapons and tactics, not just useless scholars and historians. Besides, from what Arianna was saying about the situation in Whiterun, their arms and armour are in desperate need of upgrading. That's why I'm sending you and Florentius to Whiterun as my last order before I head out. As for you Florentius," he added, turning to the eccentric mage, "You may be as mad as a Skooma addict but you're the best damn mage when it comes to fighting undead or Daedra. I know you have reservations about Arianna but she'll need your help for what she has planned…"

"If you're really set on this quest Isran…" Azzada began, but Isran stopped him with a raised hand.

"Again, you're just too vital Azzada. The only ones of you I'm willing to take would be Celann. I've seen you in action before and I know you won't let me go without you anyway. As for you Durak, I need someone to help Azzada keep the main force in line while the others are in Whiterun."

Celann nodded silently then said, "I'm with you Isran. How many men are we taking with us? It'll have to be small enough to move quickly and be inconspicuous, but large enough to potentially fight against Naarfiin and his inner circle."

Durak grunted in agreement, "I'm with you until the end, Isran. We'll be ready for your return."

"It's decided." Isran snapped, "Sorine, I want you to take three hundred of our best troops to Whiterun with Florentius. I expect you to defer to Arianna on matters of command. She's the only Vigilant left with half a brain, and the only member of that order who could take someone like me in a fight," he added with a humourless smile. "Gunmar and Durak, take an advance guard of seven hundred men and a contingent of armoured trolls to Fort Dawnguard. Beleval is in temporary command there and should have upgraded the defences some more in the time she's had. According to the messages from Arianna, there should already be a strong company of Imperial and Rift Hold troops defending the Morrowind border so cooperate with them as much as you can. As for us, I can have a contingent of one hundred men ready within the next two hours. See to it that your forces are ready by then!"

As he turned to leave Isran put a hand on Azzada's shoulder, "Farewell brother until I return, you're in command of the rest of our forces. Hold position unless you hear anything from myself or Arianna. If there's any reports of vampires aiding the Dwemer or the Dominion, I want you to sort it as soon as possible. I don't particularly trust those Snow Elves to keep control of Castle Volkhair for much longer with most of their warriors in Whiterun."

"I'll have a detachment sent to reinforce it within the hour."

"See that you do." Isran replied simply as he walked away.

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It was just coming onto midday when the Dawnguard forces rode out from the encampment. Sorine and Florentius were first, at the head of a column of three hundred hardened warriors, the hooves of their horses kicking up dirt and loose stone on the north road out of Riften.

Meanwhile Isran led the main company, his own handpicked group of warriors staying close to him as he galloped out of the encampment and away from Riften, scattering groups of Dunmer refugees heading the opposite way. Behind him came Gunmar and Durak's force, along with a long convoy of supply carts and a rough column of armoured trolls-their loping, ape like strides carrying them after their masters.

Isran kept his eyes ahead as they rode on, ignoring the column of Riften troops marching in the same direction or the farmers watching them from their fields. His only thoughts were of his slain family, and how he would soon have his revenge upon Lord Naarfiin.


	17. Chapter 17- Cracks in the Armour

Lucius emerged out onto the rearmost hall of Dragonsreach, the infamous spot where two mighty dragons had been captured, as the roars and screeches of an army of dragons flew past his vision outside.

Already in the cavernous hall were two dozen palace guards, half of them standing with drawn bows on the far balcony and the rest standing in a long shieldwall across the main entrance- armed with tower shields of steel marked with the yellow horse of Whiterun.

In the balconies above were more guards, these ones standing ready to activate the huge dragon entrapment device above Lucius' head.

"Stand fast!" called Commander Caius to his men from within the shieldwall, "The Dragonborn is here!"

Breaking off from the mass of soldiers at the far end of the hall, Caius ran over to Lucius, his bald head streaked with sweat and his hands pale from holding his sword in such a tight grip. Breathing heavily he saluted the confused looking Imperial, who nodded in response.

"Dragonborn! Am I glad to see you! Look, I know that these…things are meant to be on our side but frankly I'm just glad you're here if things get rough. Legate Cipius is preparing a unit of ballistae if it all goes south but I think you can sort things out? Right?"

Lucius nodded quickly as he began walking purposefully forward, "I'll talk to them!" he said confidently, but then added, "Have your men in reserve just in case! But don't do anything until my signal!"

As he said this Lucius ran up to the shieldwall, who parted quickly to let him pass. As the soldiers reformed their ranks behind him Lucius knew that it was definitely all up to him now. He took a deep breath as he surveyed the view beyond. Far below the parapet he stood on, the coloured forms of the vast military camp carried on for at least a mile, before melding into the rolling plains of Whiterun Hold and, in the far distance, the snow-capped mountains of the Pale.

But what occupied his gaze now was the whirling and cartwheeling forms of the hundred or so Dragons flying above the windswept plains.

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Lucius closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then let out one word in a shout that echoed across the plains.

"Odahviing!"

Instantly one of the Dragons broke from the formation and flew straight towards the stone parapet, alighting smoothly on the cobblestone with a crunch of stone and scratch of claws. Behind him Lucius heard the men in the shieldwall flinch slightly but hold firm.

"_Drem yol lok Dovhakin_," the Dragon rumbled, the stones around him seeming to move and fall at the sound of his voice, "Greetings to you. I have kept my _rot - _my word. I have gathered for you a _lahvu do Dovah _– an army of Dragons."

Lucius bowed his head in respect. "We appreciate your support. Where is Paarthurnax? His council would be very useful to us?"

Odahviing shook his head and made what sounded like a retching sound in his throat, "Paarthurnax is not the great _kendov, _the great warrior, I knew him as. He has become a _nikriin_, a coward," he said with obvious distaste, as if speaking the very word was awful for him.

"I don't expect him to fight," Lucius replied simply, "I only require his counsel and wisdom. He is ancient even by your standards. His place is in a council not a battlefield."

"A _Dovah's _place is on the battlefield!" Odahviing roared, and for a second Lucius found himself flinching at the Dragon's anger, but he stayed stock still. He knew that amongst Dragons no sign of weakness could be made.

"I can see that you need some example of the power of the _Dov," Odahviing_ declared, "No matter. Myself and my_ kendov_ shall fly out against these _Dilfahliil _ourselves. The Deep Elves will know our fury Dovhakin!"

"But we need you back here!" Lucius shouted back at the increasingly stubborn Dragon, "Our army needs your support!"

"And you shall have it! I serve you now Dovhakin but do not expect me to stay back whilst these defilers march across _Taazokaan_, Tamriel… Myself and my _kendov _will attack the _Dilfahliil _from the sky where their golden swords and vile _dwinaar_ devices cannot fight us."

Lucius internally shrugged. He knew that Odahviing could not be swayed from this path.

"Fly out against the Dwemer then. But don't waste your lives needlessly. And at least convince some of your brethren to stay with us to support our own efforts."

The mighty Dragon dipped his head slightly in what seemed like the closest a Dragon could get to humility, "Of course Dovhakin," he said calmly, "But do not make assumptions about the _Dov_. We would never throw our _lahney _so foolishly. That is the way of mortals…"

And with that last remark Odahviing pushed his armoured form up and off the parapet, ripping whole slabs of stone from the floor with his claws as he rose into the sky. Flying over the city beyond, the Dragon let out a roar and blast of fire into the air, a few screams and shouts echoing from below as he re-joined his comrades in the air.

Hearing the hurried scuff of boots on stone, Lucius turned to see Commander Caius and a whole crowd of guards with crossbows and bows at the ready rush over.

Caius shook his head in disbelief as the Dragons soared in the skies overhead before saying simply,

"So, are they on our side or what?"

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"I just don't believe it!" Lucius said in frustration as he walked down the steps from Dragonsreach with Hadvar at his side- the burly Nord remaining calm as always. "Sometimes I wish all Dragons were just a bit more like Paarthurnax- able to think things through before acting!"

Hadvar shrugged as they crossed over the small bridge into the large square where the Gildergreen stood. On all sides was a sprawl of dozens of richly carved wooden houses while in the distance to their left could just be seen the distant rooftop of Jorrvaskar- almost lost amongst the countless houses. And around them milled crowds of scared looking citizens and confused Whiterun troops, all eyes on the skies.

"You told me yourself when I asked about Dragons joining our side in the Civil War," Hadvar said evenly, "They're not tame or civilised. They have their own minds and needs. Paarthurnax may be their leader in theory but with Dragons it is whoever it the strongest and most fearless who dominates. If Odahviing tries to make them all hang around while we prepare our forces, they could be here for weeks! I somehow doubt any kind of Dragon would be alright with that. I mean, even you seem to be ready to rush across to Morrowind yourself."

"For Serana not some stubborn idea of power!" Lucius snapped, his anger and frustration finally coming forth, "Those Dragons are rushing into something they don't understand! I mean, we're taking our time because we don't know what to expect. I would like nothing more than to ride to Morrowind with the might of Skyrim and the Legion at my back right now but I know that that's stupid! Serana…Serana will have to hold her own for a while." He conceded with a defeated bow of his head.

Hadvar put a large hand on Lucius' shoulder and smiled slightly, "I understand Lucius. I'm a Nord after all- the most stubborn humans on Tamriel. Every other moment I'm thinking of Lydia. But I understand that we have to prepare. Every time I drill my men in tactics or teach them new ways of formations, I know it's another step closer to beating the Dwemer and the Dominion. And when we ride out of Skyrim and meet the Dwarves on our own terms, you know I'll be right there at your side, watching your back as we retake Morrowind."

As the two men walked towards the glittering form of the Gildergreen, its branches and leaves swaying slightly in the breeze, the distinctive form of Legate Galliverie, a broad grin across his Breton features, came striding through the crowd towards them. Dressed in newly polished Imperial heavy armour and with two similarly armed and armoured Legionnaires at his back, he looked every inch the proud officer as he saluted them and declared in a jovial tone.

"Just the men I was looking for! Captain Aldis is starting the new formation training with my unit. Should be a good exercise for you two to witness. Plus it's always fun to see the old captain chew out some idiot recruits!" he added with a wry smile and, with a shrug at one another, the two men followed him.

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Legate Galliverie's unit, a full division of a hundred warriors, all outfitted with Imperial heavy armour-which seemed to be becoming increasingly standard after the Dwemer's emergence, Lucius noticed- were drawn up in an open square in the south of the massive Imperial camp, just outside the Honningbrew Meadery.

Standing outside Galliverie's personal tent atop a large rocky outcrop, the three Legates watched as Captain Aldis, standing at the head of the formation between two fluttering Legion banners, shouted out orders at his enraptured audience.

"Soldiers of the Empire! I assume you've all been trained in the tactics of the Legion!"

"Yes sir!" came the thundering reply, and the ghost of a smile played across Aldis' bearded features as he held up a large red book, printed with the dragon symbol of the Imperial Legions in gold.

"This is the official tactics manual of the Imperial Legions. I presume all of you have read this cover to cover!"

"Yes sir!"

With one decisive move, Aldis grabbed hold of the thick book in two hands and, with barely any effort, tore it in half and threw the remains at the feet of the front rank of Imperial soldiers.

"Well unfortunately everything you have been taught isn't going to work! We are fighting the Dwemer! Not some arrogant Altmer! We have to completely redo every tactic we have!"

Ignoring the confused looks many of the Legionnaires in front of him were giving Aldis barked out another order, "Battle formation! Shieldwall!"

Instantly the hundred strong unit former a shieldwall, twenty men across and five deep, locking their shields together and holding their swords ready to face an imaginary enemy.

"Instantly we have a problem!" Aldis shouted at the stock still Legionnaires, "The Dwemer do not fight as we do. They will not rush you berserker style like Stormcloak rebels or form a phalanx as Dominion soldiers do. They form armoured formations made up of interlocking shield lines, covering all sides!"

"Sir!" called out a voice and a hand went up. 'It's like a school lesson back in the Imperial City' Lucius mused to himself with a grin as Aldis nodded and allowed the soldier to continue, "What if we break their formation and engage in individual combat?"

The ghost of an amused grin crossed Aldis' face, but he nodded and replied gruffly, "A fair question! Soldier, come forward! Draw your blade!"

Not daring to show any kind of disobedience, the soldier, a wiry Imperial with a goatee, ran out from the formation, shield held in his left hand as he drew his sword with a metallic clatter.

"Hold it steady!" Aldis ordered as a Solitude warrior to his left marched over, saluting before handing him a Dwarven sword in an ornate golden sheath. Drawing the blade in one swift motion, Aldis held the sword up, the sun reflecting off its bronze blade.

"This is the main weapon your enemy will use!" he explained, "Thirty one inches of pure Dwemer metal. This particular piece was found in the Dwemer city of Alftand. It's a few thousand years old at least! Designed mainly for stabbing motions but…"

He paused and, gripping the weapon in one firm hand, he swung at the soldier who held steady as the sword cleaved straight through the Imperial steel of his own blade, cutting it in half and leaving the soldier unharmed but obviously slightly shaken.

"That is what will happen to you if you try and take a Dwemer in close combat! That wasn't even a particularly hard swing. Besides, trust me on this one, I have gone up against bandits and rebels using scavenged Dwarven weaponry and armour. Normal Imperial steel will not work! Your shields however, from what I have heard from the only two known survivors of the first encounter with the Dwemer, from who the vast majority of this intelligence is coming from, will hold! But only if you have a proper formation!"

Lucius saw Hadvar grin as the captain put the men through their paces, making them now form into a square, made up of lines of ten men all with shields locked together- essentially making ten shield walls in a row.

"You have been issued with heavy armour and shields!" Aldis continued, "Remember that! When you fight the Dwemer legions it will not be a quick fight. It will be a war of attrition! You must grind them down and force them back! Support each other and do not allow the formation to be broken!"

As the captain continued to give orders, making the new square formation of Legionnaires march in time, turn to face flank attacks and finally work on pushing an enemy formation back, Lucius turned to look out at Whiterun, rising up from amongst the countless coloured tents of the armies of Skyrim and the Legion. The walls shone in the bright sunlight, their chiselled stone forms seeming to gleam as his enhanced sight picked out soldiers moving behind their thick battlements and strong towers.

That's when he saw the Legionnaire riding at top speed towards them, shouting inaudibly and waving to get his attention.

Nudging Hadvar and simultaneously checking the sheathed form of Dragonbane at his hip, Lucius ran out to meet the rider, who reined in his horse just short of him. The messenger, his tanned Imperial features set in an expression of obvious alarm, shouted at them as he came to a stop.

"Dragonborn! Am I glad to see you! You have to come! We were just in negotiations with the Snow Elves and…well, Bolgeir Bearclaw and the Snow Prince are having a fight to the death in Dragonsreach as we speak!"

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Hadvar shoved open the main doors into Dragonsreach, giving them one final heave before rushing through with his sword drawn, Lucius right behind him. It had taken them slightly longer than Hadvar would have liked, but Lucius had been adamant in retrieving his other sword, the Oathblade of a fallen Blade, and it clattered at his hip as he ran.

Inside the hall it was a scene of chaos. Sounds of steel on steel echoed across the chamber, along with harsh war cries. A few guards in Whiterun colours lay slumped against the wall, no marks or wounds on them but all obviously unconscious. Running along the central aisle, past a few terrified looking servants and unarmed messengers, Lucius noticed a few discarded steel swords and shields lying in their path, along with more unconscious guards.

It was a completely different scene however, to the bloodbath they were expecting when they came to the main section of the hall.

The Jarls and military commanders stood behind a crude shieldwall of Imperial and Skyrim troops, while the rest of the room's guards, at least a dozen, were grappling with an equal number of Snow Elf warriors. Neither side had drawn their blades, and yet, as the two Legates pushed past the various brawling Elves and men, they found the source of the sounds of battle.

In the centre of the room, next to the shattered remains of the council table, two armoured figures were, as the soldier had said earlier, having a fight to the death.

Prince Mirtil, his cloak thrown aside and his armour of ice shimmering in the torchlight, was a near blur of white as he spun and danced around the heavily armoured form of Bolgeir Bearclaw. The burly Nord was armed with a towering steel greatsword, and he brought it down with a roar just as Mirtil leapt aside and it embedded in the thick wooden floor.

Sensing an advantage, Mirtil brought one slim leg around and kicked Bolgeir in the back of the leg, forcing the Nord back and away from his weapon. Swinging his icy blade in a complex arc, Mirtil swung for the Nord's face. And yet Bolgeir was ready. Rolling aside he shoulder barged Mirtil aside and wrenched his greatsword from the ground, running at the dazed prince with a savage bellow.

"Looks like I need to be the peacemaker here." Lucius quipped to Hadvar as he ran past the various battling Snow Elves and palace guards, drawing his swords across his chest and holding them at his side as he sprinted to the duelling men at the centre of the room.

For a second the Elf and the Nord paused, both shocked to see Lucius running at them, but then went back to their fight as he came closer, Bolgeir gripping his greatsword and once more rushing Mirtil, the prince bringing up his own weapon to decapitate the enraged Nord.

"Tiid-Klo-Ul!" Lucius bellowed in the Dragon language, his voice echoing across the cavernous room.

To everyone watching Lucius was a blur of red cloth and bright steel for a few seconds and, as the two combatants reached one another, two simultaneous clatters of steel echoed out, and they both found their weapons cut in half.

For a second they looked ready to go at one another with the broken blades of their swords, but, with another word in the Dragon tongue, Lucius sent them both to their knees and stood between them.

"Enough!" the Dragonborn roared, and for a second both defeated combatants could see orange fire around Lucius' form, but it quickly passed. "It's not just Dwemer who can cut swords in half…" he added darkly, the torchlight flickering off the silver Akavari steel of his blades.

Mirtil attempted to rise, but found Lucius' blade at his throat.

"What are you-"he began, but the furious Imperial cut him off.

"We'll have no more of this madness!" he ordered, in a tone that seemed to quieten the rest of the room, and, as he looked out, Lucius could see that the other fights had ceased, the Snow Elf and Nord warriors all cowed into submission by his display of power. "Why are you two fighting like stupid children?"

"He insulted my lineage!" Mirtil protested.

"The filthy Elf killed my ancestors!" Bolgeir bellowed.

Then another voice, one Lucius was glad to hear once again, shouted from the far end of the room.

"What kind of war council is this?"

As he turned to face the stairs behind him, keeping a wary eye on the two men at his feet, Lucius was glad to see the broad-shouldered figure of Brunwulf Free-Winter appear, dressed in ornate blackened steel armour covered in silver finery. Around his shoulders was a black cloak with a single white rose- the crest of the Free-Winter Clan on it- and a steel sword in an ornate sheath was at his hip. Behind him came the heavily armoured figures of the Winter Guard, his family's personal troops, all dressed in similar armour and wolfskin cloaks and bearing his sigil on their shields, and the stoic form of Knight-Paladin Gelebor, looking just as confused as the Jarl.

"Captain Malborn, disarm these men!" Brunwulf said simply to the man next to him, a stony faced Bosmer in full plate armour with a shock of brown hair, who looked confused for a second.

"The Elves or the Men?"

"Both of them." Brunwulf said with barely disguised fury, and, as the Winter Guard marched over to the Snow Elves and Nords who, seconds ago, had been fighting to the death but now were looking more like scolded children as the Jarl's men took their sword belts and daggers from them.

"Good work Lucius!" Brunwulf said with a smile across his wrinkled features, slapping him affectionately on the shoulder with a gauntleted hand. "I'm glad to see somebody had the sense to stop these two idiots killing one another…" he added with a glare at both Bolgeir and Mirtil as two Winter Guard hauled each of them to their feet, making sure to stay between the two men- both of whom looked ready to kill one another regardless.

"Jarl Brunwulf! Are we glad to see you!" came the voice of Maven Black Briar, as she pushed through the soldiers formed up in front of her and the rest of the council, her hair askew and her fine clothes rumpled.

"Keep the false pleasantries to yourself Maven," Brunwulf said simply, "I didn't see you attempting to stop this violence. Or any of you so called warriors!" he added, pointing at the various Jarls and commanders still cowering behind the now disbanded shieldwall. "How are people meant to follow you into battle when at the first sign of trouble you dive under the table? Where is High King Balgruuf?" he demanded.

"He's down in the Plains District with Jarls Elisif and Igmund," said a nearby servant, "They were going to reassure the people after the Dragons left."

Brunwulf nodded. "A shame. If he had been here I doubt the High King would have let this stupidity happen. I've known the man since his father was Jarl before him. He doesn't stand for such idiocy as this. It's a good thing that the Dragons left almost. I was riding to Windhelm with a detachment of Eastmarch troops when I saw them fly overhead. I figured that something was afoot back at Whiterun. But I didn't expect this!"

"Jarl Brunwulf I-"Lucius began, but the Jarl silenced him with a raised hand, before saying politely.

"Of course Lucius. You must have some explanation for the Dragons, and we can all hear it in a minute, once these two fools have explained why we almost saw a repeat of the damn Night of Tears! Explain yourself!" he demanded of Mirtil, "You may be the Snow Prince but that doesn't mean you have to slaughter every Nord you see! And Bolgier, do you really think attacking our new allies is a good way to stop history repeating itself?"

Mirtil nodded simply as he stood up, spreading his arms wide to show the suspicious Winter Guard that he was unarmed.

"Let me explain this," he said evenly, his normal arrogance replaced by an almost regal sense of confidence tempered with humility, "We were negotiating the role of my forces in battling the Dwemer when that idiot Nord over there…" he added, pointing at an arrogant looking man in fine clothes who Lucius instantly recognised as Erikur, Thane of Solitude, "…said that the best use for my troops was as 'disposable skirmishers', I believe his words were. Of course I ignored the insult but then he proceeded to use an 'example' of the Battle of Moesring. I was at that battle!" he declared with a mix of anger and sorrow.

As he said this Mirtil pulled back his flowing white hair off the back of his head to reveal a jagged red scar running from his right ear to his hairline.

"That was a glancing blow from a Nord axe. I still have other scars from that day. I watched as our warriors were slaughtered by Nord berserkers. I watched my older brother- the Snow Prince of legend, carve a path through the savages in fur and hide, and then I watched as a grieving child put a sword through his chest. Then this dumb brute…" he added, pointing one snow white finger at Bolgeir, "…proceeds to boast of how his ancestors fought at that battle, and how they still have the spear and armour of the Snow Prince in their family vault! Not only did he admit his family killed my kin, but that they broke into the barrow my brother was laid in and took his possessions as trophies!"

Brunwulf nodded slowly, then looked down at both men.

"Bolgier, I know that Nords can be tactless, but this just goes beyond the realms of any kind of decency. This army is having enough problems without old grudges spilling forth. As for you Prince Mirtil. Do you really think that brawling over the slightest insult like some drunken fool in a tavern is going to help forge a stable alliance! Captain!" he shouted and Malborn appeared next to him, saluting quickly, "I want you to take two men and the fastest horses we have. Ride to Solitude with Bolgeir here and bring back the prince's family armour and weaponry. If he is going to lead his people into battle with us, he will do it in the armour of his ancestors."

"But sir, that'll take at least a week and a half! I thought we were heading to the border?"

"Fixing this alliance, and restoring the Snow Prince's honour," he added, with a quick glance at Mirtil, "…is just as important as seeing that our men get to the front. Inform Captain Gelanna that she is to take the majority of our forces to Windhelm immediately. I will remain here until your return with the rest of our troops."

As Malborn saluted and left with Bolgeir, giving Lucius a sly wink as he walked past the Dragonborn, the Jarl of Windhelm turned back to the assembled soldiers and statesmen.

"We cannot afford to let old grudges and rivalries tear us apart!" he declared, his voice seeming to fill the room, "If we cannot put aside our differences and work together against these new threats…"

He lowered his voice, his tone serious and morbid, "Well the Dwemer may as well have won already."


	18. Chapter 18- The Gathering Storm

The Black Prince ripped the blade of Heartstopper from the Dunmer warrior's back with a burst of crimson that splattered over the already blood-stained deck. For a second the blade began to glow a bright green, the blood on it seeming to be absorbed by the black metal, but it stopped as soon as the Prince sheathed the blade, along with its 'brother-blade' Fleshtearer, the identical sword crackling with arcane lightning momentarily before the ebony sheath closed up around it.

Looking up from the corpse of the Dunmer sailor he had just slain, the Prince noticed the dead Elf's own blade lying discarded, his severed right hand still clutching its handle, across the deck.

"Almost didn't seem a fair fight." He mused as he looked out over the rest of the ship, then added with a grin, "Almost…"

From his position on the top deck of the Imperial Navy ship, he could see right across the entirety of Fort Polaris, the fortified harbour he and the Black Army had stormed barely an hour ago. The docks and warehouses behind him were still wreathed with smoke from extinguished fires but the Prince had made sure to leave a detachment of his own troops here, alongside a unit of engineers and automatons, to rebuild and refortify the harbour and its walls. The High Queen could make good use of this place. Besides, he thought with a smile, the queen wouldn't want her new fleet to burn.

All around the large galleon he stood on the top deck of were more ships, ranging from Imperial galleons stacked with ballistae and catapults to sleek dromons, the distinctive warships of the Dunmer, capped with steel rams and armoured prows of iron. Their masts, all flying both the dragon flag of the Empire and scarab sigil of House Redoran, stretched out beyond as sprawling and as dense as the pine forests of Skyrim. Looking out over the grey water, he could see the stone lighthouse at the far end of the port lit up in a burst of flame, and he grinned.

The port, and at least two dozen of House Redoran's finest warships, were now in the hands of the Dwemer.

Looking down at the deck below, strewn with countless Dunmer corpses, he called out to one of the ten soldiers he had brought with him to clear this ship.

"Ishkur! Zarich's detachment have taken the lighthouse and lit the beacon! Send word to all our forces! We are victorious!"

The Prince's lieutenant, Ishkur, a lithe soldier in the army's distinctive black armour, clutching a Daedric bow in hand, saluted quickly and drew a small lexicon from his belt.

Walking down the wooden stairs to the lower decks, his armoured boots slipping slightly on the Dunmer blood coating every step and his large purple cape opening up in the breeze, the Prince removed his helmet, letting the cool sea winds fall on his pale face. Looking out at the fleet around them, he could hear a chorus of cheers and shouts from the other ships, as more of his troops, victorious in their own captures of the Dunmer ships, began flying the Dwemer banner from their masts.

His plan had been simple but effective. The walls of Fort Polaris were high and broad, the majority of the House Redoran troops garrisoning its strong gates and towers. And yet all it had taken was an attack at the very dead of night, where his soldier's black armour made them nearly invisible-and the bleached bone armour and bright torches of the Dunmer made them almost too easy to find. The Prince had been the first to scale the walls, as always, and it had been him that had assassinated the entire fort's commanders- by dropping through the roof of the tower they were meeting in and cutting them all down in seconds. Once the walls were clear the scattered crews of the ships in the harbour, little more than fishermen and merchant sailors conscripted by House Redoran, were easy prey for the swords of the Black Army.

Turning back to Ishkur, the Prince barked another order, "I want all my men assembled on this ship within the next ten minutes. The relief force should be here within the hour to requisition these ships for the war effort. I hope General Bahrma appreciates my gift when he storms Blacklight! As for us, I want to be en-route to Solstheim by then! And somebody get those damn engineers on board! If they're going to cower for the whole battle they should make themselves useful now it's over!"

Ascending once more to the top deck, the Black Prince watched with pride as his army began to rush to work, others beginning to arrive on small row boats, mostly more black armoured warriors with various patterns of bloodstains on their armour, but also a large amount of Dunmer labourers to crew the boat and a few skittish looking engineers in green robes. All around him the labourers were clearing away the bodies and preparing the ship to sail, the engineers were activating spider automatons that scuttled across the deck and everywhere his warriors were preparing themselves for battle, checking weapons, loading crossbows and bringing aboard stacks of provisions, ammunition and ingots of ebony and Dwemer metal for battlefield repairs.

Letting a slight smile cross his face, the Prince looked out over the gentle waves of the Red Sea, watching how the firelight from the shoreline played across its waters, giving the ocean its name. And, just visible in the distance as a grey smear on the horizon as the sun slowly rose above the endless sea beyond…"

"Solstheim." The Prince said reverently. Soon, their attack would begin, and the world would never be the same again.

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The newly risen sun's rays beat down relentlessly upon the coast of Vvardenfell as Serana and the battered remains of General Tullius' Fifth Legion, barely a hundred of them, staggered through the gates of Fort Reclusion.

As the fort's towering gates closed behind them, Serana, her face burning hot and her mouth feeling as if it was full of sand, felt a slight sense of relief pass through her.

Fort Reclusion was a decent sized town, its walls tall and broad, made out of black stone and baked sand while the streets beyond were as ordered and wide as any town in Cyroddil. The former vampire looked around with a weak smile on her face, at the timber roofs and expensive glass windows, the well-dressed Imperial and Dunmer residents dressed in fine silks and robes from High Rock and Hammerfell. Atop the walls and standing all around were scores of Imperial soldiers in leather and steel armour, their eyes wide at the sight of General Tullius, not riding in triumph on a white horse with a full Legion behind his back, but stumbling down the cobblestone street supported by two exhausted soldiers with the battered remnants of his once proud army behind him. And above it all fluttered the dragon banner of the Empire, proud and defiant as it flew from every tower and the masts of the dozen or so Imperial ships in the small harbour.

"General Tullius sir!" shouted a voice from within the watching crowd, and a gaunt faced Dark Elf in the armour and ornate cape of a Legate came pushing through the crowd, two Dark Elf Legionnaires at his back, "What happened?"

"Dwarves ambushed us," Tullius replied in his familiar gravelly tone, "This is all that's left."

A collective look of fear passed through the crowd, who now began talking in low voices amongst themselves. The Legate looked around at the increasingly desperate looking civilians around them, and quickly turned back to Tullius.

"I think we should take this inside, sir." He said quickly, and, at a nod from the Legate, a large group of Imperial soldiers pushed their way through the crowd and formed up around the battered remains of the Fifth Legion, escorting them at a quick march down the road.

Serana felt relieved as the ranks of Legionnaires closed around them. She saw Lydia, currently being held on a crude stretcher by two exhausted healers, be taken by a trio of heavyset Orcs and a small Breton healer.

"We'll get her some proper medical attention," the Breton said kindly, patting Serana on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand before leading the Orc stretcher bearers away and down another street, along with the rest of the wounded.

Up ahead the Legate and Tullius were deep in conversation.

"My name is Legate Helseth. I'm the commander of Imperial forces for this town and the surrounding area."

"What have you been doing to prepare for the Dwemer's attack?" Tullius asked bluntly, and the Dunmer visibly paled.

"The Dwemer can't be attacking us yet? Red Mountain is at least a week's ride from here."

"Their mechanical mounts don't tire. And we last encountered them barely a few days ago when they wiped out most of the survivors of our Legion. We found the rest of these men wandering the roads looking for the remains of their own units. Has there been any word from General Gaius in Blacklight?"

"The general sent a messenger hawk barely a day ago sir." Helseth said, "He told us to evacuate all civilians and military personnel across the Inner Sea and to head for the Skyrim border."

"Then why haven't you?"

"We had to wait to see if any more troops made it."

"Orders are orders Legate!" Tullius snapped, "The general gave you a direct order! He may be more of a scholar than a soldier these days but General Gaius is your superior officer!"

"But Sir I-"Helseth protested, but the general was having none of it.

"I want all those ships in the harbour prepared and supplied within the day. We haven't seen any remaining soldiers out on the roads except what you see here. As for civilians, they've either fled or are being taken prisoner by the Dwemer. You're putting this whole town at risk by waiting!" he added, before saying in a lower tone. "I need your largest ship fully prepared and stocked with all the arms and armour you can spare. And any of your troops not needed to escort the civilians to Skyrim."

Helseth looked visibly shocked at that, and started speaking in a low whisper. If Serana hadn't been standing right behind the two men, she wouldn't have caught the next bit of conversation.

"Sir, I…I can't do that," the Dark Elf said in a worried tone, "Half of these men aren't even proper soldiers. They're just young idiots who wanted to see the world and make some coin doing it."

"Then give me the half of your men who are real soldiers." Tullius replied simply, "If General Gaius is setting up defences at Blacklight he's going to need every soldier he can get."

"The general forbade me from sending any troops or ships to Blacklight! They've already raised the Ebony Chain across the harbour and barred the gates. The general is trying to tie up as many Dwemer forces as possible while the civilians get to safety."

"A sound plan. But Gaius has always been a sentimental fool. He's going to need every man he can get against those golden bastards. He can't afford to let his emotions get in the way of strategy. The only reason I'm not taking any of these men and women with me is they'll be more of a hindrance than a help when the Dwemer storm Blacklight."

"You're making it sound like Blacklight is already gone!" the Dunmer hissed. "My brothers are part of the garrison there. My family have been in the city guard since the time of Vivec! Besides, House Redoran isn't going to go down without a real fight."

"Look…" Tullius said in a softer tone, his more compassionate side showing for a brief time, "I've seen first-hand how the Dwemer fight, and that was only their vanguard. If the stories of some of those soldiers we found were true, that was only a glimpse of their true strength. They'll bring their full strength to bear on Blacklight."

"Then why are you going there! We've been receiving messages from the High King of Skyrim himself. They're building an army as we speak! All the armies of Hammerfell and High Rock are riding to Skyrim! The emperor himself will soon be calling the barons of Cyroddil to war. They need you in Skyrim Tullius," he added, a more pleading tone in his voice now. "If what you're saying about Blacklight being nothing but an obstacle in the road for the Dwemer, why are you so ready to throw your life away when they need you back with the Legion?"

Tullius nodded but his face remained defiant, "The armies of Tamriel will have to wait. We're going to have to fight this war one battle at a time. This isn't like the First Great War. This won't be decided by one big battle. We're going to have to fight the Dwemer every step of the way until we can turn their advance back, and then we're going to have to fight them all the way back to Red Mountain. At least if we make them pay dearly for Blacklight, it'll help the armies over the border in the long run."

Serana had heard enough. Pushing between the two men she looked at both of them with fury on her face.

"You're throwing your life away General!" she snapped, "Do you have some kind of death wish!"

"Auxiliary!" Tullius roared, but then Helseth cut in.

"She has a point sir. Anyway, we can discuss this inside, as I said before." He added, and Serana looked up from the two quarrelling officers.

Up ahead loomed a squat Imperial fort, the traditional square of stout walls and towers built into the side of the town wall, at its centre a large central keep with a single circular tower at its centre.

As the column of troops passed over the drawbridge, past a ditch filled with wooden stakes, and into the fort beyond- a sprawl of barracks buildings and storehouses, the Dunmer turned back to Serana and the general.

"If we're going to talk about suicide missions, can we at least do it away from my men?"

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After the rest of the Fifth Legion survivors were led away for some much needed sleep and medical attention from the fort's healers, Helseth led Tullius and Serana into the keep, past the main hall, currently filled with Legionnaires stacking up crates of supplies and weaponry, and up a twisting flight of stairs to the top of the main tower.

The Legate's office was small but cosy, reminding Serana a lot of the room Lucius had been given at Castle Dour to use as his personal quarters during the Civil War. The stone walls were hidden by large wooden shelves stacked with books and personal ornaments, along with a small camp bed and washbasin at the far end of the room, while a large map table dominated the centre of the floor- carpeted in silk rugs from Blacklight with the sigils of the Great Houses on them.

The three soldiers stood around the map table which was currently filled by a faded map of Morrowind, their own position marked with a small red flag, as were other Legion sites throughout Vvardenfell and the mainland.

"Why did you bring the Auxiliary, if you don't mind me asking general?" Helseth said, giving Serana an apologetic look as he spoke, "No offence of course, miss."

"This woman is the Lady Serana, wife to Legate Lucius Arbitus of the Fifth Legion- the Dragonborn. She may only be an Auxiliary but I trust her counsel implicitly." Tullius said in a low tone, one that was polite but with an undertone of almost fatherly protectiveness that Serana appreciated.

Helseth nodded and continued, "So, if we are to sail within the day to Blacklight, what state is the rest of the island in?"

"You're sailing to Blacklight?" Tullius said with a confused look across his hard features, "Your men…"

"If you're taking my men to Blacklight it will only be if I'm there to lead them," Helseth said simply, with a tone that showed he was not going to argue about it, before continuing, "As I said, if we are heading to Blacklight, what state is the rest of Vvardenfell in?"

"The Dwemer control the centre of the island unopposed." Tullius replied, pointing at a vast swathe of land at the centre of the map, "So we have to assume the ring of old Legion and Redoran forts near the mountain are gone." He said, and began removing the small red flags marking forts in the area.

"If our positions are gone, we have to assume the Dominion's are as well," Serana said thoughtfully, taking away the small cluster of green flags in the south of the island, "Have your scouts encountered any Dominion troops?"

Helseth shook his head. "None. My strategists have suggested that any Dominion forces- if there any left from when you fought them…"

"Trust me, there aren't." Serana said simply, and the Legate nodded.

"So, if the army you fought are gone," he added, "The only possible High Elf forces left would be at their landing grounds near the ruins of Vivec City- or the Scathing Bay as they call it now. Doubtless they've already fled to the mainland to join Lord Naarfiin's army."

"Lord Naarfiin?" Tullius said in disbelief, "I thought he was still in Black Marsh?"

"We received a messenger hawk a few days ago from one of our deep cover spies on the border with Black Marsh. Lord Naarfiin's currently leading an army of at least sixty thousand Altmer hoplites and battle-mages, Bosmer light infantry and Khajiit skirmishers supported by up to twenty thousand Argonian heavy infantry led by Bleeds-Men-Dry, the same general who led the Argonian counter-attack during the Oblivion Crisis, and then the troops who sacked Vivec City and set the whole eastern coast of Vvardenfell ablaze."

"You mean the man who willingly charged into an Oblivion Gate?" Tullius said, half with amusement and half with a sense of quiet respect for the Argonian.

Helseth nodded before continuing, pointing out a large mass of green flags in the south of Morrowind, along with a few pale blue flags with the strange crest of Black Marsh upon them.

"They've been advancing steadily since they crossed the border. General Tacitus has made sure to keep scouts following them every step of the way. Naarfiin is nothing but predictable it seems. The scouts he caught he assumes are the only ones because, in his view, nobody can outsmart him. They're maybe a week or so from Mournhold at their current marching speed."

"And Mournhold…?" Tullius began, and Helseth, sensing his question, answered him quickly.

"Is still controlled by the Argonians. As is a large swathe of the south of Morrowind. The Dominion forces are very much in friendly territory so long as their alliance with the An-Xileel is still profitable to the Argonians. House Redoran have been almost constantly besieging or attacking Mournhold for years now but, with the Dwemer and Dominion both advancing, they've pulled all their forces back behind the Red Wall," he added, and Serana gave him a confused look.

"The Red Wall? Sorry I've been…out of the loop…for a while now." She said and Helseth nodded.

"Of course. The Red Wall is an unbroken wall and series of forts stretching all the way from here…" he said, pointing out the coastline opposite the ruins of Vivec City on the southern coast of Vvardenfell, "To here…" he added, indicating the mountainous border with Cyroddil. "House Redoran have been defending that frontier from Argonian attack ever since the end of the invasion."

"Unfortunately, with the Dwemer in Vvardenfell and the Dominion and Argonians in the south, that leaves the entire east of the province without support." Tullius added thoughtfully, pointing at the eastern strip of Morrowind, which stuck out into the Sea of Ghosts like a spear tip.

"Don't worry about that General," Helseth said with a slight grin, "House Redoran is planning on sending out the fleet they have at Fort Polaris to the eastern coast and evacuate as many troops, supplies and civilians as it can. The fleets are already preparing as we speak, and the Dwemer are at least a few days march from Polaris."

"Now, moving back to the matter at hand, how many troops do you have to take to Blacklight?" Tullius asked, studying the map intently as Helseth replied.

"Just under two hundred, leaving a stable hundred of the less able to escort the civilians. That's not counting the five hundred Imperial Navy sailors we have crewing the ships."

"Are the sailors good fighters at all? We need every man and woman we can get."

Helseth smiled grimly, "Hardly. Most are either the sons of rich nobles looking for an easy posting, or are just fishermen conscripted once the Dwemer began mobilising themselves. It's best we just leave them off with the civilians to be honest. The actual capable sailors I'll keep back to crew the _Eagle._ It's the largest ship we have, and the only one that could actually help out in the defence of Blacklight. The rest are either too old or are little more than transport ships."

"We'll take it." Tullius said simply, and Helseth nodded.

"We can work out the details later of course. In other matters, I have to ask, Lady Serana, will you be sailing to Blacklight with us or joining the civilians on the way to Skyrim?"

Serana smiled darkly, "Much as I would love to head back to Skyrim I can't at the moment. Call it Nord honour or something, but I just can't leave when there's a good fight to be had. I'll be heading to Blacklight with you. I just couldn't look Lucius in the eye again if I knew I had run from a fight. Divines only know how much guilt he must feel at having to leave us behind during that battle…"

"The Dragonborn had his reasons," Tullius said evenly, "Frankly I would have told him to go myself if I could have. It was bad enough losing Delphine and Rikke and the other commanders. I try not to think about all the good men and women in the Fifth Legion we left behind. Every time I think back to our victory in the Battle of Windhelm, it feels like less and less of those who fought with us are left…"

"It never gets easier, trust me," Helseth said with a frown, "I was in the Eighth Legion during the Great War. When the Imperial City was sacked, we were the rear-guard sacrificed by the Emperor so that the rest of the Legions could escape. I had to abandon my unit as I tried to get at least a few men out through an old passage in the Imperial Prison…"

A single tear traced down the Dunmer's ash coloured face, and Tullius paused, then said softly.

"We all went through hell during the War. But at least now, once the Dwemer are dealt with, we can finally take back the Summerset Isles from those damned Thalmor. I will personally take Naarfiin's head from his shoulders, if that's what it takes…"

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As evening rolled in and the sun dipped in the sky, the forces arrayed against Fort Reclusion began to lay their own plans. A mile out from the town, atop a rocky incline topped with the collapsed remains of a Dunmer Tribunal temple, a Dwemer scout ,dressed in light armour made from golden scales and bronze plates, lowered his telescope. Emerging from behind the cover of a toppled statue of Vivec, the scout collapsed his telescope and slipped it back into his belt, next to his sheathed dagger. Scrambling down the steep hill in the opposite direction from the town, he leapt atop his mount, a sleek grey horse, taken from a House Redoran fort along with the rest of the stables, for scouting where the noisy spider automatons would only attract attention.

As he rode back the way he had come, down a hidden path between the thorny bushes and thin trees that clung to the ashy ground, the scout took a few minutes to marvel at the world around him. When he had last been in Morrowind it had been nothing like this. Back then Red Mountain had been nearly dormant and the ash strewn plains and rocky bluffs had been covered in a carpet of verdant grass and pine trees. His family had farmed along this coast, owning a few acres of fields amongst the rolling hills, along with a few livestock and a battered second-hand automaton bought by his brother from the city of Bethamez. Maybe, when this war was over he thought to himself as he rode on, he might return back here and try and fertilize the ash lands once more.

His thoughts were interrupted when he rode up the sides of a steep incline and, as he came to the top, the valley beyond stretched before him.

Gazing out, the scout looked down of the secluded valley, surrounded on three sides by tall hills, and saw the vast army of Dwemer readying themselves for battle.

Fifty thousand Dwarven warriors stood in rank after rank and formation after formation of gold and bronze, the sunlight playing across their armour and making the surrounding area look dull in comparison. Alongside the hundred strong square formations of Dwemer infantry were rank after rank of glittering automatons, legions of Spheres and Centurions standing in perfect ranks as an army of green robed engineers- armoured in complex looking golden chainmail and plate metal- checked them over and pressed shining soul gems into their central cores.

A stench of polished metal and engine oil hung over the entire army in an invisible cloud, making it smell more like a vast workshop than a military force and the scout guided his horse down the hill towards it, other scouts wearing brown robes and armour made dull with dirt and sand standing by as he rode past, their bows trained on the hills beyond.

Feeling slightly intimidated by having the eyes of thousands upon him, the scout spurred his mount on faster, through a gap between the shining formations and towards the centre, marked by a forest of ornate banners and standards.

As he reached the central command, having to pass through a formation of Centurions and the elite Armiger Legion soldiers in armour marked with red crests and ruby encrusted pauldrons- bodyguards of the Council of Warriors- he finally came to the commanders themselves.

Standing atop a low hill, surrounded by row after row of Armiger Legion troops, the commanders, dressed in the finest armours and robes, looked like gods of the battlefield to the lowly scout. Clambering off his horse and keeping his head bowed as a mark of respect, the scout moved past Master Engineers in deep discussion and tacticians thrashing out last minute strategies to bow low at the feet of General Bahrma himself. The Dwemer general, his helmet off to show his genial features, accepted the man's salute with a solemn bow.

"My lord I've finished the last of our scouting operations," the scout said, making sure not to meet the general's eyes out of respect, "The remnants of the Empire's forces appear to be making ready to flee the island."

The general nodded and turned to one of his lieutenants. "Volendun! Move all reserve cohorts into position around the town. Make sure to use the landscape for cover. We don't want the Imperial troops to know of our arrival until we want them to."

"Of course sir!" Volendun said obediently, then turned to the scout, "I'll be needing your help soldier. Did you happen to spy any hills or promontories to mount our ballistae on?"

As Volendun led the scout away, the two men deep in discussion, the general took a deep breath before saying to the other commander to his left.

"Commander Akkadia, I want you leading the attack from the north. Inform Engineer Nasir that his automatons are to be in the vanguard of your assault. I'm not willing to let our men throw themselves into the fray when the automatons can be used first."

Akkadia saluted him quickly, the short haired Dwemer woman quickly donning her red crested helmet after barking orders at her own subordinates.

"General, Commander Cuolec is in position! Awaiting your orders!" called out a nearby staff officer, looking up from the lexicon he was using to transmit messages.

"Good," Bahrma replied simply, "Inform the commander that his riders are only to engage when the gates are breached, and that his orders are to secure the harbour and ships, not burn the town down!" he added authoritatively and the staff officer saluted, turning his attention back to the lexicon in his hand.

As the rest of his commanders departed to head up their own divisions, their plans already laid out the night before on the march here, a messenger in the white robes of Commander Balthazar's so-called 'Prophet Division'- a unit made up of Dwemer skilled enough in the use of the Calling to project their vision over long distances and thus predict enemy strategy- ran up the hill to him, breathless and his face white with fear.

"General Bahrma, sir!"

"Go ahead." The general replied simply. He had learnt to trust the Prophet's abilities many times while in command. Although they couldn't truly predict the future, only being able to see the composition of an enemy army in advance, at least, for the few brief seconds the Prophets were able to keep their minds focused, the men and women of Balthazar's division were invaluable.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the Prophet spoke clearly and slowly trying to keep himself as calm as possible.

"I was projecting my gaze over the Inner Sea, trying to get an idea of any resistance we might encounter on the mainland, when I saw…"

For a second he tensed up, as if somehow reliving the awful memory all over again.

"…black wings, scores of them, and all flying straight towards us. Almost a hundred of them. Maybe an hour away at most."

"You don't mean-"Bahrma began, but the next word that the Prophet said made him realise that all his carefully laid plains and strategies were now useless.

"Dragons."

Turning away from the shivering Prophet, Bahrma started bellowing out orders at both his staff officers and the retreating forms of the armies various commanders, feeling a slight sense of pride as his men began to run around him to carry out his orders.

"Akkadia! Mahzda! Zurvan! Call off all cohorts from their current routes and take up defensive positions on all approaches to the town! Tell Commander Cuolec to stick to the plan but be prepared for attacks from the sky! Somebody get a message out to Commander Volendun! Engineer Nasir! I want your ballistae and Centurions ready for those special tactics we talked about! We're hunting Dragons now!"

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From atop his mount, the vast army of the Aldmeri Dominion looked like a forest of blazing torches and tall pikes lit by hovering Magelights. Lord Naarfiin smiled to himself. It was beautiful really. In the dying sunlight he could already feel his powers returning, feel the raw magicka beginning to course through his lifeless body in place of blood and oxygen. He kept a mask of arrogant smugness on his face but, inside, his dead heart was filled with excitement- the desire for a fresh kill.

To the formation around him- mainly stalwart Chosen of Trinimac in formidable glass armour but also retainers, scribes, servants and messengers of all kinds, all resplendent in shining Elven plate armour and bright robes- Naarfiin merely looked as if he were surveying the troops but, in his mind, the world was so much different. His vampiric sight could see it all as clear as day. Everything from the individual armour plates on an Altmer standard bearer at the front of the column, over a mile away to the individual feathers on the arrows of a Bosmer captain leading a formation of scouts on the left flank. Even the keen eyed Khajiit, moving at the front of the column in a long line of skirmishers, couldn't see or feel the world as keenly as Naarfiin could. In the distance to the west he could just see the distant lights from the Red Wall and the figures moving atop its battlements, almost five miles away.

"Another time maybe…" he muttered under his breath, almost with a sense of longing. Soon the rest of Tamriel would know his wrath, and no amount of high walls or vast armies would stop him.

He took a deep breath, not because he needed any air in his decayed lungs, but just to give himself a pause in the sense of pure ecstasy he was in.

All around him he could hear the thump of blood pumping in the veins of every man and woman in his army, like a symphony of life, the music that fuelled his every moment. Every thump of a heart in that army- all two hundred thousand men and horses- all of it made I'm feel almost…

Alive.

"My lord!" came a voice, and Naarfiin was snapped out of his reverie as a Bosmer scout, atop a small chestnut brown horse, appeared to their left, standing up in the saddle to be seen over the heads of the marching Chosen of Trinimac surrounding Naarfiin and his retainers.

"Let him past." Snapped the commander of the Chosen, Captain Tancano- a smug faced Altmer with a wicked scar across the right hand side of his face- riding alongside Lord Naarfiin.

Instantly the Chosen parted and the Bosmer rode through, bowing low in the saddle.

"My lord. The Khajiit have discovered a man on the road ahead."

"And?" Naarfiin said with a single raised eyebrow, "Tell the filthy cats to slit his throat and be done with it…"

"Sir with…all due respect," the scout said, making sure to bow extra low as he said the last part, "The man is your son…"

"Take me to him."

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Ondolemar was lying in a pool of stagnant water a mile from the coast, his once fine robes covered in mud and ash, his handsome face scarred and bruised. A gang of Khajiit, midway through checking the man's pockets for valuables, scattered as the Chosen of Trinimac marched towards them. Naarfiin was ashamed to look at him. Atop his white horse, armoured and seeming to shine in the light of the torches held aloft by the Chosen of Trinimac, the lord seemed a world away from the filthy wreck of a man before him.

"Father…" Ondolemar pleaded, reaching one pale hand, showing the early signs of starvation, up at the distant mounted figure of Naarfiin.

"Ugh…" the general retched and turned to Tancano, who watched the proceedings atop his own horse with a look of disgust, "You know what to do with deserters, captain."

"Of course sir. I'll take care of it myself." The captain replied obediently, leaping off his horse and through the formation of Chosen. As he walked across the baked earth, he drew his sword with a dull ring of metal- orange torchlight reflecting off the polished malachite.

"Wait! Wait wait wait!" Ondolemar spluttered, shuffling back across the ground like an animal, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender as the captain advanced towards him.

Planting an armoured foot on the defeated Altmer's left hand and crushing it into the earth, the captain's face was impassive. Gripping his sword in two hands, he brought it up as the bones in Ondolemar's hand snapped.

"Please! Father you can't…"

"You stopped being my son when you were defeated in battle," Naarfiin said calmly, leaning slightly forward to look at Ondolemar in the same way a man does an ant or some other insect, "You didn't even have the grace to go down fighting. Your older brothers…my only sons…" he added, correcting himself with a grimace, "…they went down fighting. It took a whole mob of Imperial degenerates to bring them down. What did it take you? Your first proper taste of combat!"

"But the…the Dwemer…"

"Will be dealt with in time. As for you, I doubt you will see the day when my army hunts down every last one of them down like the filthy dogs they are. I doubt you'll even see the sun set." He added with a casual look up at the sun steadily retreating behind the horizon.

"Father please…" Ondolemar begged, and the captain paused for a second, an amused smile on his face as he held his sword aloft, "Show me the same mercy you were shown…"

"When? When was I ever shown mercy?" Naarfiin roared, stopping the captain with a raised hand, "Hold, Tancano. I want to hear this wretch explain himself!"

Realising his poor choice of words, Ondolemar tried to shuffle backwards, his dirty encrusted face streaked with tears and sweat, but finding his path blocked as Tancano casually walked past him and stopped him with a casual kick to the ribs. As he lay groaning and defeated on the floor, the former Justicar tried to explain himself, but soon devolved into wordless sobs.

"Sir, if I may?" Tancano asked, and Naarfiin nodded at him.

"Go on…"

"How did he get here? Last I heard he was on Vvardenfell. His clothes aren't wet and I doubt he could have swum across the Inner Sea in a state like this."

Naarfiin paused and nodded.

"An excellent question captain. How did you get here you useless piece of filth?"

"A…a…boat," Ondolemar replied quickly, and if the man hadn't been in such a sorry state and hadn't had such a pleading tone in his voice Naarfiin would have had him killed on the spot for insolence.

"Where?" he demanded instead, and the defeated Altmer curled up into a ball, but still answered his question.

"There's…a harbour just down the road. We used it as a supply base when we sailed across to Vvardenfell… Most of our transport ships are still there…"

Naarfiin's expression softened slightly, and he guided his horse over to Ondolemar, stopping just in front of the Altmer as he tried to crawl agonisingly away.

"Perhaps you're not a total loss. Now I don't entirely regret letting your mother give birth to you. Maybe there's a trace of pure blooded Mer in you after all. Captain, leave this piece of filth. We have more important things to do."

A wave of relief passed across Ondolemar's face at his unexpected reprieve and began to attempt to rise.

"But I can't let you get away completely unpunished." Naarfiin added, digging his horse in the side with his spurs. As he did so the animal reared slightly, bringing its front hoof down squarely on Ondolemar's right hand. The man's screams echoed across the landscape but Naarfiin only smiled, saying his parting remark as he rode away.

"Just to make sure you're not going to get any stupid ideas about betraying me. Try using a sword ever again with a shattered hand. Now…why don't you go crawl away and throw yourself off a cliff or something?" he added with mock pleasantness.

As the defeated Altmer began to crawl away, the Chosen of Trinimac simply stepped over him, a few spitting on him as they passed.

"You're not worthy of being called a Mer." Tancano spat at him, sheathing his sword and clambering atop his horse.

As the vast army of the Dominion marched on, Ondolemar curled up into a ball, his quiet sobs inaudible to anyone over the marching sounds of thousands of feet.

Up ahead Naarfiin, at the head of the column now, rounded a low hill and spied the dark form of the Inner Sea flowing in the near distance, and, with his vampiric senses, spotted a small fleet of abandoned Dominion ships- elegant and sleek warships with armoured prows bearing the black and green flags of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. He turned to Tancano with a wide grin on his gaunt features.

"Captain, send word throughout the army. Vvardenfell awaits us!"


	19. Chapter 19- Walk in the Shadows

The sun had already set by the time Calcelmo came within sight of the Imperial City.

It had been a long and hard journey- made even longer by his temporary imprisonment by Imperial troops on the border, who had mistaken the venerable Altmer for a Dominion spy. He had tried explaining to the soldiers, talked at length about his research, about his own persecution and attempts at assassination by the Thalmor, leading to a magical duel between himself and Justiciar Ondolemar just before the start of the Second Great War, during which he, along with his nephew , the Jarls personal bodyguard and soldiers from Understone Keep, had driven the Thalmor forces from Markarth.

But that was all behind him and now, riding a fresh warhorse given to him by the apologetic captain of his jailers, and protected by a full ten man bodyguard of Blades from Bruma and fifty Imperial Legionnaires, he kept on towards the city beyond.

The capital of the Empire was about a mile away, lit up by thousands of torches and lanterns along its high walls and on the buildings beyond, with the White Gold Tower itself rising up like a spear tip into the night sky, the aurora lights of Aetherius reflecting of its marble-like form. And between them and the city, down the hill that the cobblestone road clung to, were the shadowy rows and ordered lines of a vast military camp, as the Legions of the Empire rallied for war.

"Beautiful isn't it?" said his companion riding next to him, leaning into her horse as they clattered down the hill, an older woman with greying hair dressed in the armour of an Imperial officer. Adelaisa Vendicci was her name, former soldier of the East Empire Company, now captain of the garrison that had imprisoned Calcelmo for several days. "Look, Calcelmo I…"

"It doesn't matter captain. It's in the past," The Altmer replied irritably, "I just hope that it's not too late for my knowledge to be of use."

"The Empire has been readying the Legions since we received the first message from the Dragonborn. There's still nineteen other Legions without Tullius' men but half are in the other provinces and what we do have in Cyroddil are either still not fully battle ready or at the coastline ready to repel the Dominion if they manage to break through the navy's blockade. Whatever you have for us Calcelmo, it'll be worth it."

As they rode on, scattering torch bearing soldiers and one bemused looking Breton courier from the Black Horse Courier, Calcelmo, his blue mage's robe whipping around him, dipped one slender hand in the saddlebag to his left. Checking the precious object within was safe, he replaced the leather cover over the top, but not before the small metallic cube within reflected the moonlight, and glowed with a cool blue light of its own.

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Emperor Titus Mede II sat in state atop the Ruby Throne, a high backed chair of Akavari kaya wood set with dozens of glittering blood red gems. Beyond the low dais the circular throne room spread out in a view of white marble pillars and polished stone walls, with a large viewing gallery looking down on the whole room. On every pillar flew the black and red dragon banner of the Empire, and beneath each banner were the unmoving black armoured forms of Penitus Oculatus warriors- elite bodyguard of the Emperor, standing at attention with swords of purest Cyrodillic steel at their hips in red leather and polished silver scabbards.

He would not normally have been up so late if it hadn't been for such strange circumstances- he didn't like to admit it to himself, but Titus was getting old. It felt like forever since the Great War, the First Great War, and even longer since his coronation. As he attempted to keep his regal posture on the uncomfortable throne, Titus tapped one ring encrusted finger, at the end of a still toned but now wrinkled arm clad in purple robes, on the ancient Akavir wood, listening with one tired ear to the gentle shuffle of feet on the marble around him, as small groups of servants attempted to remain out of his sight amongst the pillars.

When the doors at the far end of the room, a set of two tall constructions of ebony from Morrowind and gold from High Rock, opened with a clatter, Titus felt his attention instantly piqued. He had almost fallen asleep waiting for this mysterious visitor.

"Your highness!" called out the gruff but subservient voice of Commander Maro, decked out in his full Penitus Oculatus armour and a crimson cloak around his shoulders, his long black hair and matching beard both freshly trimmed, "The scholar Calcelmo of Markarth is here, seeking an audience!"

Titus frowned, rubbing his bald head in frustration, but his voice was calm as he replied, his voice echoing across the chamber.

"Send him in! "

Saluting, Maro turned and beckoned forth a figure, who stepped forward into the torchlight to reveal the gangly Altmer who Titus assumed was Calcelmo, along with a grey haired female captain and a small troop of Imperial soldiers in travel cloaks, who all dropped to their knees at the sight of the emperor.

Calcelmo however merely walked forward, seemingly more concerned with examining the Ayelid architecture of the vast room than showing fealty to the monarch before him. Titus couldn't blame him. He had never been one for sticking rigidly to ceremony and still had bad memories of his father, Romanus Mede, and his desire for nobody to so much as look at him without permission whilst in the throne room. Titus was too old, and too tired, to bother with such trivialities.

"What is it you wish to speak with me about Calcelmo of Markarth?" he asked cordially, and finally the Altmer met his gaze, looking like he had just emerged from a dream, and blinked a few times in confusion as the emperor continued, "I heard you were coming a few days ago. I must apologise on behalf of the men who detained you. You must realise that the war has us all scared. It's bad enough the Dominion are still trying to fight us when a new enemy is already rising in Morrowind. I've already deployed half of the Legions of Cyroddil to the Morrowind border and two more to the Valenwood-Elsweyr border, not even counting the men on the coast. I hope whatever you bring to us is useful. As I said, what is it you wish to speak with me about?"

The Altmer nodded slowly, and, as Titus peered a bit closer at the venerable looking Elf he could see that, behind the slightly glazed looking expression and the sense that the man was thinking about something a million miles away, there was the spark of great intelligence.

"It's not really something to speak about," the Elf replied with a slight smile, "More something to show you…"

The Altmer reached within the satchel at his side and withdrew the unmistakeable runed form of a Dwemer lexicon, holding it up so its metallic surface seemed to glow with an inner light. Instantly there was the clatter of crossbows being readied and taut bowstrings from the gallery above, and every Penitus Oculatus soldier in the room drew their sword, moving towards the confused Altmer.

Drawing his blade with a clatter, Maro ran at the Elf.

"Drop whatever you have Elf!" he spat, about to tackle the wide eyed scholar to the ground, "I don't care if you're here for the Dominion or the Dwemer, drop that cube!"

Titus had seen enough.

"Stop!" he roared, his previous tired state dropping away to be replaced by the same cold fury he had shown on the battlefields of the Great War. He nearly leapt from the Ruby Throne and stood atop the dais, watching with a slight sense of triumph as every man and woman in the room, from the agents with drawn swords around him to the black armoured forms of the crossbowmen in the upper gallery, stopped in their tracks.

"Let the poor man say his piece…" he said in a quieter voice, but the room was almost silent so everyone heard his next words, "The Dominion would never be foolish enough to send an assassin here to the Imperial City. There's a whole army encamped outside the walls and in this palace no one so much as breathes without our esteemed friend Commander Maro knowing. Let the poor man speak. I trust we have already caused him enough discomfort on the way here."

"I…" Calcelmo began, then cleared his throat, starting from the beginning again.

"I hold in my hands a Dwemer lexicon. In my research I have found innumerable uses for it. Seeing far distances, talking to someone who is miles away, projecting your thoughts. But the most interesting, and probably most useful, use of lexicons is as a repository of knowledge…Observe," he added, with all the air of a teacher lecturing his students, then lightly tapped a small circular disk on the top of the lexicon. As he did so a beam of blinding blue light shot out of the top, striking the ceiling far above them before splitting into countless blue beams of light that spread across the room.

The emperor looked on with amazement, seeing hundreds of different images forming then breaking up at random. Some things he recognised. He saw the unmistakeable form of a Dwarven Centurion- something he had only ever seen in museums- the squat form of a Dwemer tower, as well as what looked like schematics for machinery.

As the ghostly images moved across the room, making the normally stony faced Penitus Oculatus look slightly uneasy, Calcelmo continued speaking.

"I bought this particular lexicon at great expense from an adventurer working with the Imperial expeditions in the abandoned Dwemer city of Blackreach, a location I believe may have once formed the capital of the one of the largest Dwemer kingdoms- a collection of allied city states known as the Empire of Eternal Light. It came from the central citadel of Blackreach, from a pedestal beneath an artificial sun, if the stories are true. This lexicon contains more information on the Dwemer than any library, hundreds of years of history, engineering, economics, all contained on this one cube of metal. I haven't even scratched the surface of what this lexicon has to offer, your majesty. And I offer it to you," he added, finally bowing towards Titus, holding the lexicon tightly as the blue light it sent out began to fade, "With it we will know much more about this new enemy than the vague scholarly texts myself and my colleagues have written for the past centuries. Your armies can march out to meet them on an equal footing!"

"You say this lexicon came from Skyrim?" Commander Maro asked, looking sceptical, "What about the Dwemer who came from other parts of Tamriel? That's like having a guide to everything relating to Black Marsh and saying you can fight all of Tamriel using it!"

"Quiet, Maro," Titus snapped, slightly frustrated at the commander's words, "It's more of a lead than anything we have so far. Commander Maro, I want you to personally escort Calcelmo to my private quarters. I will speak further with him in private before we leave the city."

As a Penitus Oculatus soldier escorted the Altmer towards a side door, the scholar clutching the lexicon to himself tightly, Maro walked towards the emperor as Titus descended from the dais.

"Your majesty, why are we leaving the city?"

Titus smiled, "It's been a long time since I've had something this difficult to deal with. I'm almost glad of the challenge. I want us to march out in force for Skyrim. The Dwemer forces will most likely make for there if they can take Morrowind, if what our strategists are saying is correct. Send word to Amaund Mottiere. I want him to approve the Edict of Loyalty with the Elder Council. I trust most of our men will be ready to take on any foe with five hundred extra septims in their pocket."

As he said this a nearby servant bowed and ran in the direction of the council chambers. The Elder Council would hopefully still be in session now, Titus thought as he set off in the direction of the Royal Armoury.

"Commander I want you to take personal command of the city whilst I am gone. I trust your men will be up to the task?"

"Of course sir. I'll make sure to task a detachment with escorting you whilst you are with the Legions."

"Good," Titus said simply, "Now, make the arrangements. I'll be having my armour fitted while you do that. I want you and Calcelmo outside my chambers in an hour. You should be there while I discuss whatever else this Altmer has to say. Hopefully this lexicon will help in the war effort."

"So you're heading to Skyrim sir?"

Titus nodded.

"Of course. Not just the Legions either. The counts are rallying their banner men and sworn knights as we speak. I doubt the Jarls of Skyrim will complain about an extra sixty thousand men alongside them."

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An hour later and Maro and Calcelmo stood waiting outside the closed doors to the emperor's personal chambers- which was large enough to be an extra wing of the palace. Neither men spoke, nor did the two Penitus Oculatus soldiers standing guard at the doors.

Maro had never trusted Elves, especially Altmer, not because of any racial hatred though. His wife of ten years was a Bosmer and he knew many Altmer refugees form the Summerset Isles who dwelt in the so-called Crystal District of the Imperial City. He didn't trust Elves because of his background. Like many men of his age he had fought in the Great War, and had watched as his friends and two brothers were all killed by Dominion forces during the disastrous Battle of Anvil. In his job as a Penitus Oculatus agent he had rooted out many plots against the emperor, and almost all of them had been masterminded by an Elf.

And yet Calcelmo was different. He almost reminded him of his grandfather, who had also been a prominent scholar on the Dwemer, but he had been much more based around the ruined cities in Hammerfell, not Skyrim. He had the same scholarly air and detached but not necessarily cold attitude, as if he was thinking of a million different ideas at once while trying to hold a conversation. Most other Altmer he had met were brash and arrogant, but the academic was anything but, even lacking the received pronunciation of most of his race and having a similar accent to the Nords of the Reach. However, whether he was academic or not, Maro was eager to see the man gone, and waited impatiently for the emperor to arrive.

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The emperor was only five minutes away from them as Maro thought this, making his way through a nearly empty corridor with two Penitus Oculatus warriors at his side.

His normal regal robes were gone, replaced by the glittering steel plate and gold embellishments of the Septim Dynasty Armour, a stunning set of handcrafted armour forged millennia ago and embossed with gold from High Rock and silver from the Reach. Around his shoulders flowed a deep red robe marked by the black dragon crest of the Septims, and at his hip was belted the ancient Akavari style katana known as Goldbrand- a sword of mysterious origins forged of gold as hard as diamond, and the same weapon he had wielded during the Battle of the Red Ring.

It was as the emperor and his bodyguards were about to step into the corridor leading to his private quarters that Titus heard a voice shouting from behind and the slap of servant's shoes on the marble floor.

Turning around Titus saw a servant girl walking briskly towards them, a roll of pressed fabric under her arm.

The woman had the wiry figure of an Imperial, but with the pale face and high cheekbones of a Nord, and her almost platinum blonde hair flowed gracefully down the back of her rough servants robes. But it was her pale skin that really caught the emperor's eye, as white as the snow that made her gold coloured eyes seem even brighter.

"Titus -my emperor," the woman corrected herself quickly, curtseying gracefully, evidently having had years of practice, "I heard you were leaving…"

"I am, Katariah. And the answer is no before you ask…"

Katariah frowned, seemingly unperturbed by the two unimpressed looking Penitus Oculatus agents standing next to the emperor.

"Another emperor would…"

"Any other emperor would not have taken someone like you into a warzone. Besides, don't you have everything you need in the palace? I…I just can't be seen with you anymore. People are starting to say things."

"If they knew the truth they…"

"If they knew the truth I don't know what the people of this palace would do." Titus replied evenly, "I can't afford to bring you with me. Your place is here. Gods, if my father could see me talking to you like its normal. Look, I know you've been with my family for a long time but someone with your…unique position, shouldn't be wandering the palace at this hour. We'll talk about this later." He added finally then, with a slight smile at the frowning servant, the emperor turned away.

Katariah sighed. The double life she led would only get worse now the emperor wasn't in the city. And, as she looked out through a small side window out onto the torchlight courtyard below, where a few dozen Legionnaires drilled in battle formations, she felt the hunger within her rising. She tried to control it, tore her gaze away from the men below, from the veins standing out so temptingly in their necks, tried not to hear the call of the blood.

Turning away from the window and sitting herself down against the window-seat, Katariah closed her eyes and hugged her knees to herself, but it didn't dry the tears streaming down her face, or stop a twin set of gleaming white fangs from sliding out of her gums.

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Titus pushed open the doors to his private quarters, Calcelmo, Maro and two Penitus Oculatus soldiers at his back. They walked quickly down the marble floored corridor, past tapestries and lavish paintings of great events from Imperial history. Turning the corner next to a full sized painting of St Alessia freeing the slaves of Sancre Tor, they came to another large set of doors, where two other Penitus Oculatus agents stood, their heads bowed and fists on their hearts in the traditional salute.

Although Titus acknowledged their salute, the men still didn't move from their position as he passed them, not meeting his eye and Titus felt a slight feeling of confusion pass through him. Shrugging, he put it down to Maro's overzealous training scheme. His father would have been proud.

"Let's get this over with," Titus said as they entered the large, dimly lit room and Maro shut the door behind them, "I thought I told those men outside to always keep the lights on. Light the candles would you?" he added politely to the two Penitus Oculatus men, who bowed and moved amongst the collection of gilded candlesticks on the tables around the edges of the room.

Stepping across the marble tiled floor to the large central table, Titus, Maro and Calcelmo looked at each other from opposite ends of the table.

"No sense standing on ceremony, Elf," Maro said bluntly, "Show us the lexicon. And explain why this cube of knowledge is really that important…"

If Calcelmo was in any way annoyed by the commander's attitude, he didn't show it as he placed the lexicon in front of him on the table, and moved his hand to unlock its power once more.

Titus took a deep breath as the Elf moved forward. He didn't know why but something felt…wrong, about this room, this situation.

Then Calcelmo's thin fingers touched the button atop the lexicon and the lances of blue light shone out again.

As Titus looked up at the ceiling he saw, shown up for a second in the flash of bright blue, a shadowy figure clinging to the roof across the room.

"Stay down!" Maro roared, drawing his sword as the figure crawled along the ceiling like a spider to the far end of the room, then, as silent as a predator stalking trapped prey, leapt down and alighted softly on the polished floor.

Without a second's hesitation, Titus drew Goldbrand, the shimmering surface of the blade seeming to shine in the blue light, and stepped in front of the table next to Maro, watching as the two Penitus Oculatus agents ran at the intruder, who almost entirely blended into the gloom in their black armour.

The figure didn't flinch as the two warriors ran at them, and whispered a quick spell under their breath. Instantly every candle in the room was snuffed out, the only remaining light being the randomly shifting lines of blue emerging from the lexicon. The two Penitus Oculatus men looked around wildly, their quarry having disappeared into the shadows.

But as Calcelmo sent off a small orb of Magelight from his hand, Titus saw for a second a shadow standing directly behind the two men. He began to shout a warning as, with a flourish, the figure produced two ebony daggers shimmering with red light from their hip and slashed the throats of the two guards simultaneously.

"Get behind me sir!" Maro bellowed, looking around wildly as the figure disappeared into the shadows once more.

Titus wasn't going to stand back though. As he balanced Goldbrand in both hands, eyes glancing all around him, making sure his back was against the table, he kept himself calm and ready to fight.

"Calcelmo, get out of here," he said simply and calmly, "Get the Penitus Oculatus. Myself and Commander Maro will…"

The Altmer was already running for the door as the words left Titus' lips, but the emperor hadn't even finished speaking before a shape appeared from the gloom and leapt at him.

Deflecting the slash of his assailant's knife, Titus moved to his left, the clash of metal on metal filling the room as he parried the knife slashes and stabs coming at him in a flurry of ebony blades.

Maro ran to help him, raising his sword in a two handed grip as he came up behind the assassin.

The commander's battle cry turned the assailant's head long enough for Titus to rush forward, swinging Goldbrand two-handed and bringing it in a slash for his opponent's midsection.

In the seconds it took his sword to find its mark, the assassin had already sidestepped it and, in a blast of arcane black smoke, was gone. Goldbrand cut through the smoke, but already the enemy was gone.

"You are getting slow aren't you, your majesty?" called out a voice from the far end of the room, with the unmistakable haughty tone of a female Altmer, and both men instantly turned to the source of it.

"Almost takes the fun out of it." The voice called out again, this time from the complete opposite side to where it had last spoken.

"Still, a jobs a job." The mysterious Altmer said simply, and this time her words came from right on top of them.

"Get..!" Maro shouted as he looked up at the ceiling above them, but by then it was too late. Descending like a thunderbolt, a figure of black armour and arcane smoke dropped down next to the Penitus Oculatus commander.

"Try it…Elf," Maro spat, as the two warriors circled each other, "I doubt your daggers can pierce this armour…"

The Altmer laughed and advanced on Maro, and Titus felt a stab of fear course through him as he finally saw the assassin properly.

Dressed from head to foot in a surprisingly light looking armour of ebony plate and blackened chainmail and her face hidden by an ebony helm, the Altmer more resembled a Dremora warrior than the Thalmor agent he had been expecting. But it was the long bladed dagger that she withdrew from an ornate sheath at her hip that really struck fear into the elderly emperor.

"Mehrunes Razor…" the Altmer said, almost reverently, "Fitting that I kill the last of the Mede Dynasty with the weapon of the god who destroyed the Septim Dynasty."

And with that she leapt forward, the Razor clashing against Maro's sword with a clash of steel. Maro moved back, slashing at the Altmer, forcing her to dodge his blows. With the longer range of his sword, Maro looked as if he could take her on, as he drove the assassin back.

Behind them Calcelmo had reached the door, but, much as he hammered his fist futilely on it and pulled on the handles, he couldn't get it open.

"You won't be leaving this room alive," the assassin declared with a haughty laugh, "I enchanted the door before I let you find me. The only thing getting through that door now is a battering ram!"

Her blade clashed against Maro's once again, sparks flying as she dragged the Razor up the length of the blade, dangerously close to slashing Maro's throat before he pushed her back with a rough shove.

"I made sure to kill those guards on the door a good hour ago," she added, drawing one of her ebony daggers and slashing both weapons at Maro, keeping an eye on Titus as he began to come at her from the other side, "Froze their bodies in place so you wouldn't suspect…"

As she said this Titus ran at her, slashing Goldbrand at her chest. The assassin bent backwards, letting the blade swing over her before aiming a savage kick at the emperor's knee, forcing him backwards just as Maro came in from the other side, his own attack blocked between her two daggers.

"My name is Lilith, the Shadow of Alinor, and First Blade to the Thalmor High Council." The assassin said as she pushed his sword away and advanced on Maro, swinging her blades in a complex flurry that left Maro unsure what to block as he only just managed to keep the deadly blades from cutting his throat.

"And I am the bringer of your demise…" she added, as she dodged under Maro's swing and slashed him on his unarmoured hand.

For a second Titus, still attempting to recover from nearly having his kneecap shattered, thought nothing of it, and neither did Maro, but then the assassin, Lilith, laughed again as she leapt back.

"I see none of you have read much into the Razor of Mehrunes Dagon. The ancient scrolls say that it took merely a touch from its edge…"

As she said this Maro paled and, with his mouth open in a silent scream, collapsed to the floor, his sword clattering uselessly next to his body as he fell to the marble with a dull thump.

"…to tear the very life force from a man." She finished, then there was no more time for talk as Titus ran at her, slashing and hacking Goldbrand at her but hitting only air.

Titus kept up the attack, but Lilith almost seemed to be playing with him, merely ducking and dodging his strikes, while her own attacks with the Razor and her dagger were mere feints to catch him out.

Pushing her back towards the frozen door, Calcelmo leapt aside with a cry of fear, and Lilith turned her head to him briefly.

"Don't worry Calcelmo. I'll get to you soon. The Dominion has need of your knowledge…"

The emperor panted heavily as he kept up the attack, angry at this arrogant Elf who almost seemed to be playing with him. The Altmer was like a snake, always sliding away just out of his grasp, her attacks precise and swift- making his own strikes seem as clumsy as a giant's club.

Already he could feel himself tiring, his age getting the better of him again. He needed to finish this assassin soon. Leaping forward he rushed at her, but Lilith merely sidestepped his attack and, before he had a chance to react, Goldbrand rebounded over the frozen form of the door and he barely managed to dodge her counter, the Razor passing within inches of his unarmoured head. He cursed himself silently for not wearing his helmet with the armour.

As he managed to grip Goldbrand properly again and retreat back, Titus felt an odd feeling coming over him, his whole being seeming to get colder, and a sharp pain began to spread through every part of him.

"I didn't mention did I…" Lilith said, this time her tone more serious as Titus kept pushing her back with his now anger fuelled attacks and she blocked every strike, "My armour isn't just some ebony plate a filthy Dunmer threw together. This is the Ebony Mail of the Master of Plots herself, Boethiath. I see you wield Goldbrand. Interesting. Last I heard the Dark Mistress has bestowed it upon the Champion of Cyroddil. Well, irony is a funny thing isn't it…"

And with that Lilith leapt forward, switching Mehrunes Razor in her hand from a slashing position to a stabbing one, and plunged it straight into the centre of Titus' breastplate.

Then the clatter of Oblivion-forged steel rebounding off metal filled the room.

"What!" Lilith said with obvious surprise, her arm recoiling back at her failed attack, and a grin spread across Titus' pale face.

"My armour is the Lord's Mail, forged by Kynareth herself for the mortal men of Tamriel to fight against Daedric champions like you. Did you really think your puny Daedric dagger could pierce the armour of the Goddess of the Heavens who helped craft all of creation?"

For the first time since she had attacked, Lilith was rendered speechless and, with a new fire in his heart, Titus pushed her back, his blade a near blur of gold as his newfound energy drove the Altmer back with a flurry of attacks that she only just managed to parry. With one last slash that broke her ebony dagger in two and sent Mehrunes Razor flying into the shadows, Titus forced Lilith against the wall, placing Goldbrand up against her throat.

"I don't care what kind of hell-forged amour you're wearing," Titus said slowly, "But this sword was forged Eras ago by the Dragons of the North as tribute to Tiber Septim. Nothing will save you from the blade of Talos himself!"

If Lilith had any kind of remark or counter, she didn't say it and Titus smiled darkly.

"Now, before I have you given the same punishment I meted out to Lord Naarfiin, tell me who you work for."

That was when Lilith laughed and Titus angrily pushed the blade slightly into her neck, enough to pierce the blackened mail and reveal her golden Altmer skin that seemed so bright in the near darkness.

"I represent the Aldmeri Dominion, yes, but I serve a much nobler cause also. I am a Daughter of Sithis."

"No…" Titus said softly, his eyes widening.

"Interesting fact about the Dark Brotherhood." Lilith added casually, with all the air of someone just recounting a simple detail.

"They always work in pairs." Said a voice from behind Titus, and then he felt the scrape of ebony against his throat, as a black dagger tore a jagged line across his neck and his blood flowed freely out and onto the Lord's Mail.

"Leave him Veezara." Lilith snapped, and the assassin behind the dying emperor, a broad shouldered Argonian dressed in the Brotherhood's black armour and hood, let the man fall, Titus Mede II's last words being nothing more than a strangled choking sound.

"As you will, Listener." The Argonian rasped, and the two assassins turned to see Calcelmo cowering in the far corner, Commander Maro's sword in one hand and a charged lighting spell in the other.

As they began walking towards the defenceless scholar, the sound of booted feet and raised voices outside the door became audible.

"The Penitus Oculatus took their time." Veezara said with a hoarse laugh.

"No matter. By the time they break through that door we'll be long gone," Lilith said as the thump of axes on wood came from the other side of the door, and more shouted commands, "Veezara, find us an escape route."

As the Argonian bowed and ran to the shuttered windows at the other end of the room the Altmer turned back to Calcelmo.

"Now Calcelmo, you don't want to make this any harder on yourself do you?" she said as she picked up Mehrunes Razor from where it lay near her feet. "I was ordered to bring you alive but it is a long journey to Morrowind and I may get a bit…frustrated, along the way if you make it hard now."

Taking a deep breath Calcelmo closed his eyes for a second, then dropped the sword, the magic in his hand fizzling out with a slight crackle.

"Good good," Lilith said with false kindness as she stepped towards him, tracing one leather gloved hand across the scholar's wrinkled face. "Don't worry though. Lord Naarfiin will be most pleased to see you, and…" she added with a glance at the still glowing lexicon on the table,"…all the secrets of the Dwemer are just an added bonus really."


	20. Chapter 20- Smoke and Flame

Fire and smoke blanketed the ashy plains around Fort Reclusion. The walled town looked like an island in a sea of flame, its strong walls casting eerie shadows and strange shapes on the ground below as tongues of fire, both arcane and mundane, flashed and rippled across the sky from the baked earth below.

Hunkering low into the stone battlements, Serana clutched the heavy form of the crossbow to her chest, the cold iron pressing into her chest as her ears pounded with the deafening noise of battle all around. Around her other Imperial soldiers were crouched down, their shields held up, trying to stay out of the way of the storm of arrows and bolts slamming and ricocheting off the parapet. The soldier next to her, a Dunmer woman with wide eyes, only had a second to attempt to shout a warning before a crossbow bolt punched clean through her throat and out the other side.

Grabbing hold of the woman as she fell, the Elf's dark blood splattering over her steel gauntlets, Serana called upon her magical knowledge, willing a small orb of healing light into her hand. But, as she looked down, she could see it was useless. The Dunmer's red eyes were open but there was no life in them. Shoving the body off her, Serana stayed low, the unbearable heat from below starting to get to her.

It had been an hour since the Dwemer started their attack and, as she peered over the walls, hearing the dull twangs of Imperial archers letting off a return volley, she could see the seemingly countless regimented ranks of golden armoured troops laid out across the plains before her. At first, when she had stood up on the walls when the enemy were sighted, she had thought it hopeless. The majority of the Dwarven army had held back, staying within bow range but in unmoving shielded formations, while a lumbering host of gleaming Centurions, lit up in the gathering darkness by the arcane light of the soul gems in their armoured chests, thundered straight towards the main gate, hissing with steam.

Then the Dragons had come.

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"Hold fast!" Volendun bellowed from within the centre of the formation, holding his shield above his head, sweating freely underneath his armour in the claustrophic confines of the unit. He trusted his fellow soldiers next to him. The whole formation relied on every man and woman protecting the others around them. Their shields were locked together tight, and Volendun could only see the world through the tiniest gap between the bronze shields.

"Steady!" he called, clutching his crossbow in his right hand- feeling every groove and mark along its metal body through his gauntlets; fingers curling around the hard metal trigger.

Outside the roar of Dragons and crackle of arcane fire filled the air, and Volendun could barely see through the clouds of black smoke and floating embers. And yet the dark shape plunging through the sky was unmistakable, holding its wings low against its scaled body as it dived straight for them.

For a brief second Volendun was sure he heard the beast speaking in some strange language, and then there was no time for anything but action.

"Lock shields!" he ordered and his window onto the world was gone; the only thing he could see was the shadowy forms of his comrades.

Then the world lit up in a burst of orange flame. Closing his eyes against the blinding flash, he felt heat- unimaginable heat- burning straight against the side of his shield. He held fast, trusting in the magic-resistant properties of Dwarven metal. And yet, for a few painful seconds, he could feel his arm beginning to slip, hear the roar of the fire burning its way across his shield.

Then, as suddenly as it had hit them, the arcane fire was gone, and Volendun clutched his crossbow.

"Now!" the Dwemer bellowed, and, with the practiced skill of veterans, a hundred Dwemer lowered their shields and raised their crossbows, bracing them against the tops of their unscathed shields.

For a fraction of a second, Volendun locked eyes with the Dragon hovering above them, a savage looking creature with brown scales and leathery wings, looking almost confused at the entirely unharmed formation of Dwemer beneath it.

Then the sky was filled with crossbow bolts. Striking the beast in the wings, the golden tipped bolts tore right into it, shredding muscle and piercing into bone. The Dragon roared in fury and tipped its head back, about to let off another burst of magical fire. It never got the chance. From both sides came the dull thump of automaton ballistae firing, accompanying the arrival of a volley of bolts, each the length and thickness of a man's arm; punching through the Dragon's scaly hide and bringing it down to earth.

With a last roar of defiance the Dragon fell from the sky and plunged into the baked earth, throwing up dust and stone.

"Again!" the commander ordered, and the Dwemer, having taken time to slam a new bolt into their crossbows, let fly again, ripping apart the creature's natural armour in seconds, leaving its once proud form bloodied and torn covered with half buried bolts across its hide.

"Reload!" he added, but by then it wasn't necessary as, with a clanking of metal and hiss of steam, a Centurion came stomping over, bringing its bronze hammer up high over the Dragon's head, then slamming it down again. Volendun didn't see the beast's skull crack, but he heard it, along with the soft squelch that came after.

The Dragon may have been dead, but, as he took the few seconds to survey the battlefield beyond, Volendun could see it what was far from over.

All around them the massed legions of the Dwemer were under attack from the skies, the armoured monsters swooping down and letting forth torrents of flame, ice and other arcane magic. Although most formations were doing well- using General Bahrma's strategies to good effect, others were crumbling. To their left a whole hundred-man unit was torn apart as a trio of Dragons plunged down, letting off a torrent of arcane magic that collapsed the formation like leaves in the wind, hurling armoured soldiers aside with sweeps of their claws and teeth. The hiss of automatons filled the air as much as the growing flames that set fire to all in their path, squads of Centurions smashing through Dragonscale hide like it was paper while hordes of Spheres and Spiders hacked and slashed at the beasts when they were brought down by Ballista fire-bringing them down by sheer weight of numbers.

Up ahead Volendun saw a mighty orange scaled Dragon, sparks crackling across its scaled sides from lighting infused ballista bolts, plunge straight down to earth with a strangled roar, letting off a last desperate blast of flame as a horde of Spider automatons leapt atop it and began hacking it to pieces. With one last roar the Dragon met its unceremonious end as a Centurion plunged a sword the size of a man through its skull.

"Incoming!" screamed one of the men in his unit and Volendun was back in the present as another Dragon came screaming towards them, the reflections of the raging fires seeming to ripple across its white scales and Volendun shouted back ,as much at it as at his men.

"Form up! Take aim! Bring the monster down!"

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From the midst of a formation of two hundred crack Armiger Legion troops, General Bahrma surveyed the battlefield from behind his shield. He felt a smile come to his face underneath his face enclosing helm as he saw the Dragons breaking on the army of Dwemer around him. The tactics were not entirely his of course. Engineer Nasir's help had been invaluable, especially in the use of the automatons to deliver the final killer blows to the mighty beasts.

In the skies above them the remaining Dragons soared high, diving through the haze of smoke to deliver torrents of fire or attempt to scatter the Dwemer formations with sweeps of their wings and claws. And yet, as Bahrma looked on with a sense of pride, his men did not break. Most of the Dragons were driven off when the Dwarves opened up with volleys of crossbow fire, with those who didn't plunging to the ground and being finished off mercilessly. A few attacked those units that couldn't properly defend themselves, scattering them and tearing their shields apart. He watched helplessly as one formation was broken by a heavyset grey scaled Dragon, and the Dwemer ran in all directions, the few who held their ground burnt alive- cooked within their own armour. The rest were easy pickings for smaller Dragons, who came screeching down from above, their claws tearing through flesh and armour alike.

The glow of a lexicon filled the shadows around Bahrma and the voice of one of his messengers came shouting out,

"Sir! Commander Volendun wants to know if we are to hold positions or advance. He says the Dragons are going to break them soon!"

Bahrma thought for a second, looking out once more at the battlefield beyond wreathed in smoke and fire. He couldn't make a rash decision.

"We need to take the fight to the enemy!" he said after a minute, "Send out the order to the main cohorts. All units advance in formation. And tell Commander Cuolec to make for the gate. If we can take the town the Dragons will have no support. Plus those walls and towers will make for good vantage points for the crossbow companies and ballistae."

"It will be done my lord." The messenger answered quickly, and the bright blue glow of the lexicon became even brighter as Bahrma shouted orders at the formation around him.

"Lock shields! Advance forward at marching pace! Keep those crossbows ready!"

As soon as the words had left his mouth the Dwemer complied, and the marching sound of thousands of armoured boots filled the air around him, as the cohorts on all sides moved alongside them, into the battle beyond.

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In the cover of a nearby hill, in the reserve ranks, Cuolec the Red waited for his orders. Breathing heavily, as much in frustration as the effort of wearing his heavy armour and carrying a greatsword one handed, the veteran cavalryman however was also feeling something he always felt in those moments before battle.

Exhilaration.

Around him and behind him the massed ranks of his Riders of Dahaka, and another thousand automaton riders, were also preparing for battle, checking their armour and weapons or performing last minute adjustments to their steam powered mounts. Turning his head he could just see the expanse of gold armour and burnished metal that was his army, all lit up every so often by a far off blast of dragonfire.

He hated cowering here behind this hill, but he knew the power that the  
>Dragons circling overhead possessed. Why they hadn't attacked them he didn't know. Perhaps the arrogant creatures didn't see Cuolec and his riders as a threat.<p>

"They will do soon…" he muttered to himself as he checked his helmet was secure, tapping it with one gauntleted hand to check the metal hadn't warped or weakened on the ride here.

"My lord Cuolec!" said the man next to him, a messenger clutching a glowing lexicon, whose name he hadn't bothered to learn.

"Go ahead." Cuolec snapped.

"My lord, General Bahrma wishes us to advance. The Centurions have almost broken through the city gate and he wants us to secure the town. Commander Akkadia's cohort and Commander Mahzda's pikemen will be moving in to support us once the main streets are cleared of resistance."

Cuolec grinned behind his helmet.

"Relay the message throughout the column," he ordered, then turned to face the massed ranks of Riders of Dahaka and other Dwemer cavalry, raising his greatsword high so it reflected the distant lights of arcane fire.

"We've had our orders brothers! We are to carve a path through the enemy positions by any means necessary! Let's go kill some Kar-din!"

With the resounding cheers and battle cries of his cavalry behind him, Cuolec spurred his mechanical mount up the hill, gripping his sword and shield to him. And, as they reached the top of the hill, Cuolec and the first rank of riders had a view of the hellish scene below.

On the plains below them came the seemingly endless ranks of the Dwemer, the shadowy winged forms of the Dragons circling and diving down to attack all around. And, less than a mile through the landscape of fire and gold, almost lost behind the clouds of smoke and hails of gold tipped arrows, was Fort Reclusion.

"To the gate!" Cuolec bellowed and kicked his mechanical mount harder, willing the steam powered machine to carry him even faster.

Clattering between the reserve units of Commander Akkadia's Clan Rourken infantry- bearing aloft blood red banners-all cheering from their tight formations as Cuolec rode past, Cuolec raised his blade in salute to the marching soldiers.

"Race you to the Kar-Din!" he shouted with a hoarse laugh, and the column rode on, swerving to avoid the embattled units of Dwemer on all sides.

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"Another volley! Now!" Serana bawled, leaping up alongside the battered remains of the troops around her, all simultaneously letting off a hail of crossbow bolts and arrows straight downwards.

Below them the Dwemer Centurions continuing battering at the gate, five of them, ignoring the hail of projectiles that merely clattered off their thick armour.

"Aim for the core!" a sergeant further down the wall shouted, seconds before a hail of Dwarven bolts struck him down.

"What he said!" Serana barked at the men and women around her, "In the centre of the chest! That's its weak spot!"

As she slammed another bolt into her weapon, Serana took a second to look all around her. The Legionnaires and conscripted Imperial Navy troops around her were barely holding together, as volley after volley of arrows and bolts flew at them from the Dwemer formations below, while the town itself was filled with the screams and shouts of civilians rushing for the harbour, as much afraid of the Dragons roaring overhead as the Dwemer army advancing on them.

"Hold it together! Form up!" she heard General Tullius shouting from the street below, reining in his mount behind a stout shield wall of heavy infantry in thick steel armour, spears and crossbows aimed outwards. "Auxiliary!" he shouted up at Serana as he clocked her leading the archers, "We need your men to protect the gate!"

'That's what we're already doing,' she thought in her head as the rest of her men looked confused, pausing from their cowering.

"You can't protect the gate from up there anymore! We have to take them from the ground!" Tullius shouted up and Serana nodded with a sigh.

"Cover us!" she ordered the other archers as she picked out whoever looked like the best fighters, "The rest of you, on me!"

Serana led her small company down the steep sided stairs two at a time, blocking out the sounds of battle beyond as they stepped out onto the broad cobblestone avenue and past empty storefronts and houses to Tullius' small but determined looking shield wall.

"Take up positions behind the wall!" Tullius barked, drawing his sword as the hammering on the gate became even more pronounced than before. Next to the gate a few terrified looking Dunmer troops in light armour braced the doors, planting wooden stakes and their own bodies against the thick wood and steel gates in a desperate attempt to keep them shut. But already Serana could see cracks appearing as she took up a half crouched position with her crossbow set to her shoulder.

"Load!" she ordered, and a few clatters of metal on wood showed how meagre their forces were.

"We're making a fighting retreat men!" Tullius shouted, coughing slightly as a cloud of embers and smoke floated over their heads. "Repel whatever comes through that door but be ready to fall back! This town isn't worth throwing away our lives for…" he added in a quieter tone that only Serana heard.

She had no time to think about the general's words as the two gates began to splinter and buckle.

Gripping her crossbow tightly, she tried to remember what Agmaer had taught her on the long ride here, and she slowed her breathing, keeping her body still and lined up at the gates. Agmaer was by the docks by now- Tullius had personally despatched him to help load up the _Eagle_ for a quick escape.

As Serana set her eye to the sights, a golden axe blade smashed a deep gouge through the centre of the left gate and, as it was wrenched out, she saw the impassive bronze face of a Centurion. The Dunmer soldiers by the gate instantly fled, throwing down their weapons and running down a side street

"Cowards!" Tullius called after them, then bellowed at the remaining troops, "Prepare for-" The rest of his order was lost in a screech of metal and crack of wood and the two gates were ripped from their hinges and thrown either side, sending up yet another column of smoke into the blackened skies overhead.

With a clatter of metal, a single shape leapt through the smoke, a nightmarish figure in crimson armour atop a blood spattered spider automaton, and behind him came ten steam belching Centurions.

"Run or die Kar-Din!" the figure roared and, in the brief second it took her finger to tighten on the crossbow's trigger, Serana recognised the same Dwemer who had defeated Delphine.

Then she pulled the cold metal trigger and watched as her bolt flew out at the Dwemer cavalryman, along with ten others and a few arrows.

The Dwemer didn't even break stride. One of the Centurions lumbered in front of him and the projectiles clattered off its gold armour- the fires from the burning landscape beyond reflecting off its shining form.

"Fall back! Fall back!" Tullius ordered, seconds before his horse took a crossbow bolt and he tumbled from the saddle as the Dwemer rider clattered towards them, more of his comrades leaping through the trashed gate.

Throwing her crossbow aside Serana leapt into a side street and began running, seeing a bruised but alive Tullius and a few others following her example. Looking back with wide eyes as she dodged a collapsed market stand, Serana watched in horror as a few brave Legionaries stood their ground, jeering and insulting the approaching Dwemer moments before the Centurions came at them. Most were hacked apart and the few who escaped the automaton's earth shattering blows had only moments to run before the first of the Dwemer cavalry rode them down. Serana and the others watched in horror as one soldier, a hulking Orc wielding a steel greatsword, managed to cut down a Dwemer cavalryman with one sweep of his weapon, but then the crimson rider, Cuolec the Red, Serana remembered one of the Legionaries called him- rode towards him at full pelt.

For a second their two greatswords clashed, the Orc barely deflecting the Dwemer's deadly blade before Cuolec's mount kicked out, its metal leg slashing the Orc's arm. The Orc stumbled back, swinging his sword wildly and for a second Serana felt a glimmer of hope. Then Cuolec brought his sword around and hacked the brave Orc clean in two, then rode his mount over the Legionaries bisected remains.

One of the soldiers with her screamed and Cuolec's head turned, instantly seeing the sprinting mob of retreating Legion troops. Pointing his blood soaked blade squarely at Serana, he shouted at his men as they rode past.

"Some Kar-Din for you boys! Maybe we-"

As he said this there was an animalistic roar and a green scaled dragon, larger than any other Serana had seen, soared overhead, letting out a gout of flame that barely missed Cuolec, but incinerating the house next to him and an unlucky Dwemer in a blaze of arcane fire.

"You three! Ride down the Kar-Din! The rest of you, spread out and clear the streets! The dragon is mine!" he bellowed, and then rode away.

But Serana kept running as she turned away, already hearing the metal legs of the pursuing automatons on the ash strewn cobblestone street.

"Keep it up men!" Tullius encouraged, managing to take the lead despite his age. "Legate Helseth and the fort garrison will meet us at the Eagle!" he added, pointing over the rooftops to the distant forest of masts and sails that was the port- all of it surprisingly untouched by the inferno raging across the rest of the town.

"Come on lads!" shouted a nearby sergeant- a wiry Imperial with a thin beard, "When we get to Blacklight we can-"

He never spoke again. A golden spear tip exploded from his chest and Serana whipped her head back in time to see the lead Dwemer cavalryman, his helmet off to show off his mad grin and forked beard, grab another short shafted javelin from the back of his mount.

"In here!" she ordered, pointing at the door to a large inn that had surprisingly not been set ablaze.

Tullius nodded quickly and Serana summoned a ball of electricity, letting it fly at the door and blowing the cheap wood off its hinges.

Rushing inside, the small group of Imperials all breathed sighs of relief.

"No time to rest! Get that door barricaded!" Serana barked, noticing Tullius' approving look as he leapt the bar.

Running over to the door, she helped a few weary looking soldiers manhandle a long bench into place by the doorframe, while others piled chairs up and ripped planks off tables for the barricade.

Turning to Tullius she saw the old general behind the bar, not seeming to notice as his men ran up and down looking for supplies for the growing pile of furniture and wood by the far wall and over the windows.

"This is no time for a drink general!" she shouted as he appeared for a second behind the bar. The old man didn't respond and she angrily ran over.

"If you haven't'-"she began as the jeers of Dwemer soldiers echoed in the street outside.

"Quiet!" Tullius snapped, putting a hand to his ear as he lightly stepped over the floor behind the bar. "If you haven't noticed there is no way out. I've already checked the back and the only exit leads straight out into an inferno! This whole town is going to go up soon and we can't camp out in this tavern much longer…"

"What do you need?" Serana asked in a softer voice.

"There must be a wine cellar below here, and from there some kind of sewer access. Problem is finding the trapdoor."

As Tullius said this a chorus of harsh laughter came from outside, and the two soldiers watched in horror as tongues of orange flame began seeping in and over the crude barricade.

"Who's for a slice of roast Kar-Din!" shouted someone from outside, and instantly the soldiers began panicking, pushing and shoving past each other to the far end of the room.

"Keep it together!" one of the soldiers shouted and the others began to look desperately around for a way out.

"We haven't got time to find the trapdoor. Sergeant Orlov, your axe!" Serana shouted at a burly Nord sergeant, who nodded and threw over his heavy two handed iron battle-axe, "Now everyone calm down and let me listen." She added, before leaping the bar and standing, feet planted apart and axe at the ready. Moving down the length of the scuffed floorboards, she remained conscious of the growing flames her comrades were futilely attempting to keep back.

Tapping her booted feet across the rough planks, all Serana could hear was the resounding thump of wood on bare earth. Then the boards beneath her made a splintered hollow sound, and Serana muttered a faint 'yes' under her breath. Bringing the axe up and over her head, she heard Orlov saying in his deep Nordic accent.

"Are you sure you can break that, my lady?"

"I'm stronger than I look…" Serana replied with a slight grin then slammed the axe blade deep into the wood, the iron blade chewing up the weak wood and she kept at it. "If we can't find the trapdoor, we'll have to make our own!" she said, just as her last swing smashed straight through and she nearly fell. For a second she was falling forwards into the unlit cellar beyond, then she felt strong arms pull her back and she collapsed into her comrade's firm grasp, letting the axe drop from her hand.

"Good work Auxiliary!" Tullius said, slapping her on the shoulder before drawing his sword, "No time to lose!" he added as some of the roof support beams high above began to crack and the flames drew ever closer. Without a second thought the veteran commander leapt down into the hole, followed soon after by a grateful group of soldiers.

"Come on!" Orlov said to Serana, grabbing his axe and helping her to her feet.

Serana nodded then, checking her sword at her hip and that she hadn't hurt herself, took a running jump and dropped through the hole, Orlov right behind her.

She fell onto the rough earth floor and rolled, coming into a stand with barely a few scratches. Stepping away she felt herself move involuntarily as Orlov dropped down next to her. Muttering a few words of magic, she threw up a Magelight that stuck to the roof, lighting up the bare room that was filled with only a few caskets and barrels of wine and ale.

"Through here!" Tullius ordered, appearing from behind a large wooden pillar, "Sewer access is through here. Castus, Talwein, bring those iron bars by the barrels. Orlov and Shay, get as many torches as you can find. Falx, see if there's any strong alcohol in bottles. We may need it if anyone gets wounded along the way."

Serana quickly followed the general. It was only now that they had a brief moment of breathing room that she noticed how few their number actually was. Besides herself and the general, there were barely five men left. The rest must have tried the back entrance, she thought grimly, remembering the general's warning that only the open street and the flames awaited anyone who went that way.

However there was no more time to ruminate on the fate of the others, or the town above them. She followed Tullius down a short passageway, hearing the roar of the flames overhead and the faint screams of townspeople, as well as the savage cries of Dragon and Dwemer alike. Up ahead was a large sewer access, covered up by a few crudely nailed up wooden boards, leaving gaps to see the dim torchlight from the sewers beyond.

"Legate Helseth told me about this during our private strategy meeting last night," the general explained as he and Serana began pulling off some of the loose boards and prying nails out with their daggers. "It's an old safety measure from when the town was first built. The sewers were specially made to act as a way for civilians to get to the harbour as quickly and safely as possible. Hopefully the people of this town remember these routes."

"Did you know about the Dragons sir?" Serana asked as she tried to block out the muffled screams of terror and pain from above, focusing only on her own task and the slap of booted feet as the others ran over.

Tullius shook his head. "Not at all. I assume your husband may have put them up to it, but then I thought how little strategy those dumb lizards are actually using. I saw plenty of them getting shot down by the Dwemer because they got too arrogant and convinced of their own strength. We cannot underestimate the Dwemer at all. That's one thing I will make sure to tell General Gaius when we reach Blacklight."

"We're still going? After all this?"

The general nodded, a grim look on his sweat stained features, and "Hopefully the Dragons will put enough of a dent in the Dwemer that they think twice before following us to the mainland. Somehow I doubt that though…" he added grimly, "But the mission remains the same. Head to Blacklight. Maybe we can at least stop their advance. It's one of the best defended cities in the world. It's got a triple wall, hundreds of strong towers and is home to one of the finest fleets in the whole of Tamriel. If we can't defeat the Dwemer, at least they'll have to smash themselves to pieces on the defences before they cut us up with those golden swords."

"Sir, we have the tools." Legionary Castus, a fresh faced Breton- surpassingly tall and broad for his race- said as he ran over, the wiry Bosmer Talwein at his back with an armful of stout iron bars.

"Good. Let's get this door open before the whole building comes down on top of us." Tullius said firmly, and he and Serana moved aside while the two Legionaries began tearing whole chunks of wood and clumps of nails up.

"Sir, we managed to scavenge as many supplies as we could," Orlov stated as he and the others ran over, his deep voice echoing in the narrow passage, "Filled up mine and Shay's kitbags with as much food and water as we could find, just in case we can't reach the ship in time…"

"Or if the stocks on the Eagle are running low." Remarked Shay, a pale faced and pretty black-haired Nord woman with a soft accent, a hopeful smile on her face compared to Orlov's grim expression.

"Good work, all of you." Tullius said with a nod, then turned to Falx, a weary looking Imperial with a jagged scar across the left side of his face from the tip of a Dwemer blade, "Get some of those torches lit and passed amongst the men. I don't want to rely too much on Serana's magicka too much. The poor woman looks ready to drop…" he added with a concerned look and Serana shrugged.

"I'm fine sir. Let me at least get those torches for you…" she added as Falx finished passing out torches to the group, just as the last of the boards were stripped away. With a quick click of her fingers, she conjured up a bright flame from her index finger, then lit each of the proffered torches, before taking one for herself from Falx.

"Let's move out." Tullius snapped, keeping his sword at the ready as he stepped into the sewer beyond, his torch casting strange shadows across the slimy stone walls.

The soldiers quickly followed. Serana brought up the rear with Orlov, who had thrown his axe over his shoulder while he held his torch up, their feet splashing through the dank green water as they ran.

"I'm surprised the-" he began, but from behind them came a loud crash and dull thump of an explosion and everyone looked back to see a blaze or flame from the direction of the wine cellar, as well as a few tiny chinks of light from the surface.

"It's a good thing we got out quickly." Shay said from up ahead and Serana nodded, then felt her skin crawl as she heard the distinctive clatter of metal spider legs on the street above.

"By Talos I hate spiders," Orlov remarked with a look of disgust "Doesn't matter if they living or metal. I thought Frostbites were bad enough, then I meet those things. I remember when I was younger working down the Redbelly Mine in Shor's Stone, maybe five years ago or something, before I joined the Legion…"

He paused as the distant howls of Dragons and thunk of crossbows seeped down to them, as well as commands shouted in the Dwemer's harsh tongue.

"We had just hit a big vein of iron ore- thought there might have even been a bit of ebony if we were lucky. Then this fat hairy Frostbite Spider scuttles through the hole we just made. Damn near made me shit myself. We had broken into a nest of the things. I remember planting my pickaxe square in the thing's head- right by those awful little eyes, then running as fast as I could along with all my mates. Didn't manage to get the mine back open for over a week, until some skinny Imperial with a pair of curved swords was passing through and cleared the mine out in an hour. I remember him saying he was heading up to Windhelm to talk to someone at the East Empire Company. I talked to him and told him about how I had actually been pretty scared of the damn spiders- he said he was terrified the entire time he was in there, then he gave me this ring with a stone in it. Said he found it in a cave somewhere while searching for a gambling den or something… he said it was lucky. Didn't think much of it until my husband Odfel tells me that what I thought was some coloured glass was actually a ruby worth more than I made in a year! Was enough to pay off the debt on our house, get Odfel a new pickaxe from some wandering Khajiit that they said was unbreakable, and I got Filnjar to forge me this beauty here." He added with a grin and tapped his axe blade with one large palm.

Serana smiled as the burly Nord finished his story. She was still finding out all the things Lucius had done before she had met him, and even now she felt a little bit happier knowing her husband had been out there doing good all his time in Skyrim.

However that smile died as they turned a bend and the glimmer of moonlight seeped into the tunnel from an open grate leading outside.

She ran over to Tullius and the others, seeing their shocked faces lit up in the bright glow of fire- both magical and mundane.

For a second she couldn't see what they were looking at, then she pushed past them and felt all her hope and happiness from before simply melting away as she looked out.

Beyond, the entire harbour was ablaze. Tongues of smoke and fire leapt across the wooden store buildings and houses that crowded the dock, while at the far end of the port, where the wall sloped into the sea, the vast lighthouse was a pillar of flame and melted stone. With a sickening crash and crunch the ancient tower listed then fell into the harbour, throwing up waves of black water and smashed wood, tipping over boats packed with refugees and dragging them down into the dark sea. Closer to them, crowds of civilians hurled themselves onto the sides of already packed vessels as a few harried soldiers abandoned their defensive positions, deaf to the shouts of Legate Helseth who stood alone silhouetted atop his horse, shouting and waving his sword as he desperately tried to rally his men.

And at the centre of it all, like a vast column of flame and splintering wood, the Eagle was burning. Listing dangerously to one side and all three of its masts crumbling and on fire, the vast ship attempted to push off from the docks. Smashing two wooden piers to splinters as it went, the warship began to tip to the right, and Serana watched in horror as shadowy figures were hurled from its deck or dragged under by collapsing siege equipment and stacks of burning supplies. Others willingly hurled themselves into the water to escape the flames but were instead pulled down by the collapsing ship as it shed its overloaded cargo off.

At the very top the Imperial dragon flag flying at its mainmast fluttered proudly one last time then snapped off and flew into the skies overhead, moments before the once proud ship, with one last ditch attempt to make for open sea, began to fall to the right, crushing itself under its own weight. The Eagle began to sink like a stone, smashing apart under the unrelenting assault of the flames and the rolling seas before, with a crash of timbers and whoosh of flame it sank below the black waters.

Serana watched the ship sink to its watery grave and felt hot stinging tears spring to her eyes, as the last shreds of her hope finally died.

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Cuolec tore down the centre of the burning street, his mount skirting around charred corpses and piles of rubble. At his back were fifty Riders of Dahaka with bloodied blades, and behind them came a detachment of Commander Mahzda's pikemen, a hundred towering warriors in armour so thick it looked unbreakable. And in their hands as they marched in perfect lockstep were towering pikes five metres tall tipped with wicked spikes.

The pikemen couldn't keep up with Cuolec and his vanguard however, as they kept riding, tearing through the smoke, banners flying and cloaks whipping around them.

Looking up Cuolec caught a glimpse of the green scaled Dragon flying through the smoke cloud above and heard its deep throated bellow.

Cursing the creature for not coming within range of his men's crossbows, the cavalryman rode on, eyes glancing either side for any potential threat. He had already lost good men to unexpected ambushes by Imperial soldiers- luring his troops in with a few unarmed soldiers, then catching them in a crossfire of javelins and crossbow bolts.

Turning a corner past a large townhouse wreathed in flame, Cuolec drew up as he saw the large square ahead, an open expanse of dirt and cobblestone filled with tattered market stalls and overturned carts.

Bringing his mount slowly into the square, he held up his fist, still clutching his massive greatsword, and heard the clatter of his men coming to a halt.

"Wait for the pikes men," he snapped, "This is a perfect spot for an-"

He didn't manage to finish his sentence, as a dark shadow flew right towards them from above, tongues of flame building up in its jaws.

"Shields!" Cuolec bellowed, moments before a wave of bright orange fire leapt from the approaching Dragon's mouth and across the square- transforming the small market into a plain of fire and melted stone.

Kicking his spider mount in the sides Cuolec managed to get to one side just as the flames reached his formation, striking the front rank in a rolling storm of fire.

His men scattered, many with their cloaks burning and fire rolling over their magic resistant armour. Others however, weren't so lucky and Cuolec found his resolve hardening as he heard the screams of agony from some of his men, saw a few roll off their mounts with steam billowing out from the joints as their armour literally cooked them alive.

The Dragon soared upwards, hovering above a row of collapsed houses across the square, letting off a blast of flame at them and turning the wood to kindling.

"_Hi fen pah mah Dilfahliil. _You will all perish, Dwemer!" it roared, letting off another blast of flame before alighting on the burning houses with a crunch of claws on stone. Zu'u los Odahviing- I am Odahviing, he who turned your cities on the surface to ash in Eras past. It was I and my kin that drove you underground into dank holes. And this time I will bury you in fire!"

The Dragon leapt from the rooftops and crashed down into the centre of the market, smashing aside stalls and rubble with casual swipes of his tail and wings.

"Take the beast down!" Cuolec roared, holding his sword aloft before plunging forwards, guiding his mount through the tangle of burning wood and shattered brick whilst readying himself for the fight, bringing his sword up for a strike at the Dragon's armoured form.

As he clattered closer to the monster, he watched with anger as many of his comrades attempted the same thing, but were swept aside or roasted alive by the Dragon's ferocious tail sweeps and arcane fire blasts.

Seeing Cuolec advance, Odahviing drew himself up, planting his legs firmly into the ground and pushing himself up with his wings, bringing up his head and baring his sword-like teeth.

Cuolec kept coming, lowering himself into his mount and lowering his sword.

In one swift movement Odahviing leapt forward, opening his mouth wide to bite the veteran Dwemer in half and at that same moment Cuolec ducked low in the saddle, pushing his mount down hard into the ground while guiding it underneath the Dragon's attack, past its leathery wings and underneath its armoured belly.

With a roar Odahviing attempted to move himself to grab Cuolec or crush him under his bulk, but then the Dwemer let forth a savage cry and brought his sword up, plunging its razor sharp point directly into the Dragon's scaled hide.

Odahviing howled in equal parts pain and anger, but Cuolec ignored him, riding full pelt underneath the creature's vast bulk, ripping his sword in a bloody line across the Dragon's chest, coating his blade in streaming black blood as he drove it in even further.

Then he looked up to see the Dragon above him moving to crush him and he let go of his sword and hurled his shield to one side. Leaping from his automaton, Cuolec sprinted for the smoky inferno beyond the shadow of the Dragon, and rolled out seconds before Odahviing slammed his chest into the ground, the automaton giving out one last whine and blast of steam as it was flattened.

Breathing heavily and his face caked in sweat, Cuolec tore off his helmet and threw it aside as he skirted the Dragon, who was already howling in agony as his actions had only forced Cuolec's blade even further into his chest.

Odahviing futilely snapped at him but Cuolec only laughed as he came to the Dragon's head, which was set in a grimace of pain and fury.

"For all your might and arrogance, Dragon," Cuolec spat, "You really are stupid."

The Dragon looked about to lunge forward but then Cuolec heard the clatter of armoured feet and stepped back as ranks of pikemen ran in, their long spears lowered at the wounded Dragon- balancing the pikes on tower shields that glowed in the flames. Odahviing futilely let off gouts of fire but the Dwemer merely locked shields and hunkered down, while ramming the wicked points of their weapons into him as he tried to move. Cuolec felt a smile come to his face as he saw the mighty Dragon brought low, its leathery wings cut apart by thrusts of pikes and hurled javelins and it howled as the cage of spikes and shields closed in on it.

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Serana and the others rushed out onto the quayside, past dozens of ships and piers covered in fire and charred corpses, pushing past screaming crowds of civilians and wounded soldiers.

"Spread out and search for any kind of transport!" Tullius ordered, his voice almost lost in the chorus of screams and cries from the men and women around them, along with the sounds of battle beyond and roar of flames.

Serana looked up to see Dragons circling the city, diving down to attack Dwemer positions outside the walls. Most didn't reappear. She shoved aside a group of Dunmer noblewomen in once fine silks now streaked with blood and ash, past two shell shocked Imperial sailors to the half collapsed form of one of the main piers. To her left she could just see where the Eagle had sank, its mainmast just poking out of the rolling waves, while all the sea beyond was packed with countless boats, many on fire or sinking, others so packed with refugees they could barely move.

But there was nothing. All the remaining boats, a loose collection of fishing boats and pleasure yachts, were either beached in the shallows and filled with rubble, or had become bloodbaths as mobs of desperate refugees fought tooth and nail for any chance of escape.

She felt a hand grip her arm and turned to see the hysterical faces of two Imperial soldiers, their clothes streaked with blood and their unshaven faces and wild eyes giving them a frenzied look. One was missing an ear and was bleeding profusely from the stump of where it had once been- the other had a painful looking gouge right across his forehead.

"You! You're a soldier!" one of them shrieked, "What are our orders! Give us orders!"

Serana pushed the two men away but they grabbed her, the other grinning.

"Hmm she's too pretty to be a soldier. Maybe she's one of the girls who visits the barracks every week- even got herself a pretty little uniform…"

He grinned even more as he stroked Serana's arm with two outstretched fingers.

Instantly the young Nord called up a bolt of electricity and blasted the two of them with it, not enough to kill them but enough to throw them aside.

The two men began to get up, groaning, before two other soldiers ran up and quickly kicked them down, levelling them with a flurry of punches.

Serana felt a hand on her shoulder, but she felt at ease, instantly recognising her rescuers as Castus and Falx, and the man with his hand on her shoulder as Orlov, whose eyes blazed with fury as he saw the two men lying on the floor.

"Leave them boys! Let the fires take them!" he snapped at Castus and Falx, who quickly ran to join them as Orlov turned to Serana, "We've found ourselves some transport. It ain't pretty and it ain't going to be a comfy ride, but it should get us to the mainland."

"Take me to it." Serana said simply, rubbing her arm where the crazed soldier had touched her, trying to rub away the awful feeling she had felt when he had laid a hand on her ;the flashbacks to her offering to Molog Bal…

She looked up as Orlov and the others made a path through the crowd, Orlov using the end of his axe handle as a club while the others shoved aside anyone who came near. Serana felt guilty as she saw the countless civilians on all sides but she had already seen the horrific fate that Dwemer like Cuolec gave to captured soldiers. She guessed that whoever was leading the Dwemer valued civilians more, or at least used them for something else besides target practice.

They came to the end of a pier, past a few trampled bodies, and Serana looked down into the foaming sea and felt her eyes widen as she saw the 'boat' her comrades had got- a small fishing raft a metre wide and five metres long made of logs lashed together with rope, Shay standing at the end with a tall oar in hand.

"Well it is the only way…" Serana muttered under her breath as she clambered down, and made it to the unstable 'deck' of the raft just as the others did and Shay quickly pushed off.

"Draw your weapons men," Tullius barked from the head of the raft, "This thing will barely take us lot. We can't afford any other passengers."

Serana sighed but drew her sword regardless, closing her eyes and trying to block out the screams for help from the hundreds of civilians, both on the quayside and in the water.

"Divines above," she cursed as she opened her eyes and looked out at the burning town beyond, the shoreline beyond the walls packed with formations of Dwemer troops in rigid formations, a few remaining Dragons banking and diving down on them.

And, as she watched, she could already see the last few Dragons begin to plummet from the skies, or be smashed apart by Centurion's hammers, and she turned away from the horror behind her, to the mainland beyond, and the uncertain future that awaited her.

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Odahviing let out a howl of agony as the pikes continued to tear into him, not letting him find anywhere in his new prison that was safe from their barbed points and piercing strikes.

With a clatter of metal Cuolec's squire (and occasional sleeping partner), Daena, came over, her helmet off and her thin face and short black hair streaked in sweat and ash.

"My lord Cuolec!" she said, straightening up in the saddle and saluting, not seeming concerned at all about the raging Dragon barely a few metres away, "Shall I give the order to destroy the beast?"

Cuolec shook his head, a cruel smile playing across his scarred features as he looked over at the weakening Odahviing.

"No… The men need something impressive to raise their morale. I'll need the Bane of Romulus. My other sword is currently in the belly of that monster there."

Daena nodded and reached for a large, thin object wrapped in fur and leather strapped to her automaton. Leaping off the spider with the heavy object in hand, she struggled under the weight as she threw the wrappings off to reveal a huge sword that nearly came up to her shoulder, in a sheath made from the black fur carcass of a werewolf, with its snarling head forming the point where the sword handle emerged.

Holding the heavy weapon out Daena struggled to lift the sword as Cuolec easily slid the blade out with a clatter of Dwarven metal- revealing the sword as he held it in both hands- the fires all around reflecting off its polished form.

"One day I'm going to use this sword to take the head of Romulus Fenrir, not just runt werewolves like this one was," Cuolec stated as he began walking towards the ranks of pikemen and the wounded Dragon, "Until then I'll just have to settle with putting it through the face of this other monster…"

And with that he was shoving his way through the pikemen, and emerged in the middle of the circle of lowered pikes as Odahviing let out another howl of pain and defiance.

"Calm yourself monster," Cuolec said as he stalked closer, the Bane of Romulus clenched tightly in hand, "It will all be over soon…"

As he said this another Dragon came screaming in from the north but Cuolec didn't break stride, and saw out of the corner of his eye as crossbowmen atop the city walls and nearby rooftops brought it down in a hail of bolts and gold tipped arrows, and the mighty creature smashed into a nearby building with a crash of timbers and whoosh of flame.

"You…will die…_Dilfahliil!_" Odahviing rumbled, still remaining defiant despite the dozens of wounds across his body and the countless barbed Dwemer arrows riddling his scaled hide. With a roar he swung his tail, which Cuolec easily avoided, before adding in a lower tone, "The Dovhakin will shout you to pieces and crush your…armies, like dry kindling before a flame, he will tear you apart." He added with one last defiant bellow as Cuolec clambered over his head and stood atop his skull, his wide eyes looking up at the armoured Dwemer standing atop him with sword in hand.

Cuolec rammed the Bane of Romulus into Odavhing's skull, and the mighty Dragon shuddered and roared one last time before falling still. Cuolec looked down at his defeated enemy and laughed.

"Let him try…"


End file.
